Bppletons'  Uown  an& 
Country 

No.  187 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY 


IN  THE    DAY  OF 
ADVERSITY 


A  ROMANCE 


BY 

JOHN   BLOUNDELLE-BURTON 

AUTHOR   OF 

THE     HISPANIOLA     PLATE,     THE     ADVENTURES     OF     VISCOUNT     ANERLY, 

HIS  OWN  ENEMY,  THE  DESERT  SHIP,  A  GENTLEMAN-ADVENTURER, 

THE    SILENT   SHORE,    ETC. 


"  If  thou  faint  in  the  day  of  adversity,  thy 
strength  is  small "  PROVERBS 


NEW     YORK 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
BT  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


THOSE  who  are  acquainted  with  the  delightful 
Memoires  Secrets  de  M.  Le  Corate  de  Bussy  Rabutin 
(particularly  the  supplements  to  them),  and  with  Rous- 
set's  Histoire  de  Louvois,  will,  perhaps,  recognise  the 
inspiration  of  this  story.  Those  who  are  not  so  ac- 
quainted with  these  works  will,  I  trust,  still  be  able 
to  take  some  interest  in  the  adventures  of  Georges 

St.  Georges. 

J.  B.-B. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.— "THE  KING'S  COMMAND" 1 

II. — HOSPITALITY  !  10 

III.— IT  is  THE  MAN 18 

IV. — "  HER  LIFE  STANDS  IN  THE  PATH  OF  OTHEES'  GREED  "    27 

V. — THE  GRAVEYARD 34 

VI. — A  LITTLE  LIGHT 44 

VII.— A  REASON 53 

VIII. — DRAWING  NEAR  .        .        .       .  ,     .       .        .       .62 

IX. — A  ROYAL  SUMMONS 71 

X. — MADAME  LA  MARQUISE 80 

XI. — THE  MARQUISE  TELLS  A  STORY         ....    89 

XII.— LOST 96 

XIII. — DE  ROQUEMAURE'S  WORK 105 

XIV.—"  I  MUST  SPEAK  ! " 114 

XV.— THE  MINISTER  OF  WAR 123 

XVI.— PASQUEDIEU  ! 132 

XVII.— "  KILL  HIM  DEAD,  RAOUL!" 140 

XVIII. — LA  GALERE  GRANDE  REALE 149 

XIX.— "A  NEW  LIFE" 158 

XX. — " HURRY,  HURRY,  HURRY!" 166 

XXL— MAY,  1692 175 

XXII.— LA  HOGUE 183 

XXIII. — THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 191 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  pAOB 

XXIV.— ON  THE  ROAD 199 

XXV.—"  I  KNOW  YOUR  FACE  " 207 

XXVI.— IN  THE  SNARE 216 

XXVII.— ANOTHER  ESCAPE 224 

XXVIIL— THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS 231 

XXIX. — FAREWELL  HOPE 240 

XXX.— " IT  is  TRUE" 248 

XXXI. — ST.  GEORGES'S  DOOM       ......  256 

XXXII.— THE  LAST  CHANCE 265 

XXXIII.— THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION 274 

XXXIV.— "  I  WILL  NEVER  FORGIVE  HER "  .          .          .283 

XXXV.— AT  LAST   .........  291 

CONCLUSION .  300 


IN   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 


THE    FIKST    PERIOD. 
CHAPTER  I. 

"THE  KING'S   COMMAND." 

ALL  over  Franche-Comte  the  snow  had  fallen  for 
three  days  unceasingly,  yet  through  it  for  those  three 
days  a  man — a  soldier — had  ridden,  heading  his  course 
north,  for  Paris. 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  and  prevented  from  falling 
by  his  bridle  arm,  he  bore  a  little  child — a  girl  some 
three  years  old — on  whom,  as  the  cloak  would  some- 
times become  disarranged,  he  would  look  down  fondly, 
his  firm,  grave  features  relaxing  into  a  sad  smile  as 
the  blue  eyes  of  the  little  creature  gazed  upward  and 
smiled  into  his  own  face.  Then  he  would  whisper  a 
word  of  love  to  it,  press  it  closer  to  his  great  breast, 
and  again  ride  on. 

For  three  days  the  snow  had  fallen;  was  falling 
when  he  left  the  garrison  of  Pontarlier  and  threaded 
his  way  through  the  pine  woods  on  the  Jura  slopes; 
fell  still  as,  with  the  wintry  night  close  at  hand,  he 
approached  the  city  of  Dijon.  Yet,  except  to  sleep  at 
nights,  to  rest  himself,  the  child,  and  the  horse,  he  had 
gone  on  and  on  unstopping,  or  only  stopping  to  shoot 

i 


2  IN   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

once  a  wolf  that,  maddened  with  hunger,  had  sprung 
out  at  him  and  endeavoured  to  leap  to  his  saddle; 
and  once  to  cut  down  two  footpads — perhaps  poor 
wretches,  also  maddened  with  hunger — who  had  striven 
to  stop  his  way. 

On  and  on  and  on  through  the  unceasing  snow  he 
had  gone  with  the  child  still  held  'fast  to  his  bosom, 
resting  the  first  night  at  Poligny,  since  the  snow  was 
so  heavy  on  the  ground  that  his  horse  could  go  no 
further,  and  another  at  Dole  for  the  same  reason, 
until  now  he  drew  near  to  Dijon. 

"  A  short  distance  to  travel  in  three  days,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  as,  afar  off,  his  eye  caught  the  gleam 
of  a  great  beacon  flaring  surlily  through  the  snow- 
laden  air — the  beacon  on  the  southern  watchtower  of 
the  city  walls — "  a  short  distance.  Yet  I  have  done  my 
best.  Have  obeyed  orders.  Now  let  me  see  for  further 
instructions." 

There  was  still  sufficient  light  left  in  the  wintry 
gloom  to  read  by,  whereon,  shifting  the  child  a  little  as 
he  drew  rein — it  needed  not  much  drawing,  since  the 
good  horse  beneath  him  could  hardly  progress  beyond 
the  slowest  walk,  owing  to  the  accumulated  snow — he 
took  from  his  holster  a  letter,  and,  passing  over  the  be- 
ginning of  it,  turned  to  the  last  leaf  and  read  : 

"  At  Dijon  you  will  stay  at  the  chateau  of  my  good 
friend  and  subject  the  Marquis  Phelypeaux,  avoiding 
all  inns ;  at  Troyes,  at  the  manoir  of  Madame  la  Mar- 
quise de  Roquemaure;  at  Melun,  if  you  have  to  halt 
there,  at  the  chateau  of  Monsieur  de  Riverac.  Between 
these,  if  forced  to  rest,  you  are  to  select  the  auberges 
which  offer ;  but  at  these  three  towns  you  are  to  repose 
yourself  as  stated.  Above  all,  fail  not  to  present  your- 


"THE  KING'S  COMMAND."  3 

self  at  the  manoir  of  Roquemaure.  The  marquise  will 
deliver  to  your  keeping  a  message  for  me.  Therefore, 
be  sure  you  travel  by  the  route  indicated,  and  not  by 
that  which  passes  by  Semur,  Tounerre,  and  Sens.  On 
this,  I  pray  God  to  have  you,  M.  Georges  St.  Georges, 
in  his  holy  keeping.  Written  at  Paris,  the  9th  of 
December,  1687. 

l  Louis.  Soussigne,  Louvois." 


"  So,"  said  M.  Georges  St.  Georges  to  himself,  as  he 
replaced  the  letter  in  his  holster,  "  it  is  to  the  Marquis 
Phelypeaux  that  I  am  to  go.  So  be  it.  It  may  be  bet- 
ter for  the  child  than  at  an  inn.  And  I  cannot  gossip, 
or,  if  I  do,  only  to  my  host,  who  will  doubtless  retail  it 
all  to  the  king."  Then  addressing  himself  to  the  watch- 
man on  the  southern  gate,  he  cried  : 

"  Open  there,  and  let  me  in  !  " 

"  'Tis  too  late,"  the  man  replied,  looking  down  at 
him  through  the  fast-gathering  night.  "  None  enter 
Dijon  now  after  four  of  the  evening.  Ten  thousand 
devils  !  why  could  you  not  have  come  half  an  hour 
earlier  ?  Yet  there  is  a  good  auberge  outside  the  walls, 
and  -  " 

"  Open,  I  say  !  "  called  up  the  horseman.  "  I  ride  by 
the  king's  orders,  and  have  to  present  myself  to  the 
Marquis  Phelypeaux.  Open,  I  say  !  " 

".Tiens  I  "  exclaimed  the  watchman,  peering  down  at 
him  through  the  gray  snow  and  rime  with  which  was 
now  mixed  the  blackness  of  the  oncoming  night.  "  You 
ride  in  the  king's  name  and  would  see  the  marquis. 
Vest  autre  chose  f  Yet  I  must  be  careful.  Wait,  I  will 
descend.  Draw  up  to  the  grille  of  the  gate." 

The  horseman  did  as  the  watchman  bid  him,  looking 
down  once  at  the  child  in  his  arms,  whose  face  had  be- 


4  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

come  uncovered  for  a  moment,  and  smiling  again  into 
its  eyes,  while  he  muttered,  "  Sweet,  ere  long  you  shall 
have  a  softer  couch " ;  then,  as  the  grille  opened  and 
the  watchman's  ruddy  face — all  blotched  with  the  con- 
sumption of  frequent  pigeolets  of  Macon  and  other 
wines — appeared  at  the  grating,  he  bent  down  toward 
him  as  though  to  submit  his  own  face  to  observation. 

"  Your  name  and  following  ?  "  grunted  the  man. 

"  Georges  St.  Georges.  Lieutenant  in  the  Chevaux- 
Le'gers  of  the  Nivernois.  In  garrison  at  the  Fort  de 
Joux,  between  Verri^res  and  Pontarlier.  Recalled  to 
Paris  by  order  of  the  king.  Ordered  to  visit  the  Mar- 
quis Ph61ypeaux.  Are  you  answered,  friend  ?  " 

"What  do  you  carry  in  your  arms?  It  seems  pre- 
cious by  the  way  you  clasp  it  to  you." 

"  It  is  precious.    It  is  a  child — my  child." 

"Tiens!  A  strange  burden  for  a  soldier  en  route 
from  the  frontier  to  Paris.  Where  is  the  mother  ?  " 

"  In  her  grave !    Now  open  the  gate." 

For  answer  the  bolts  and  bars  were  heard  creaking, 
and  presently  one  half  of  the  great  door  swung  back  to 
admit  the  rider.  And  he,  dismounting,  led  his  horse 
through  it  by  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  clasped 
his  child  to  his  breast  beneath  the  cloak. 

Standing  in  the  warder's  lodge  was  a  woman — doubt- 
less his  wife — who  had  heard  the  conversation ;  for  as 
St.  Georges  entered  she  came  forward  and  exclaimed 
gently : 

**  A  cold,  long  ride,  monsieur,  for  such  as  that,"  and 
she  touched  with  her  finger  the  rounded  back  of  the 
child  as  it  lay  curled  up  on  his  arm  beneath  the  cloak. 
Then,  still  femininely,  she  went  on :  "  Ah !  let  me  see 
the  pauvrette"  and  without  resistance  from  him  she 
drew  back  the  cloak  and  gazed  at  it.  "  Mon  Dieu !  " 


"THE  KING'S  COMMAND."  5 

she  exclaimed,  "  a  pretty  little  thing.  Poor  little  bebe. 
And  the  mother  dead,  monsieur  ?  "  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  as  she  spoke. 

"Dead,"  he  replied — "dead.  In  giving  birth  to 
her.  I  am  father  and  mother  both.  God  help  her  ! " 

The  woman  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  little  thing, 
whose  soft  blue  eyes  smiled  up  at  her ;  then  she  said : 

"  The  Marquis  Phelypeaux  is  a  solitary — dwelling 
alone.  There  is  little  provision  for  children  there. 
What  will  monsieur  do?" 

"  As  I  have  done  for  three  years — attend  to  all  its 
wants  myself.  There  is  none  other.  It  had  a  nurse  in 
the  fort ;  but  I  could  not  leave  it  nor  bring  her  with  me. 
In  Paris  I  may  find  another.  Now  tell  me  where  the 
house  of  this  marquis  is?"  and  he  made  a  movement  to 
go  forward. 

"And  its  name,  monsieur?"  the  kindly  woman 
asked,  still  touched  with  pity  for  the  little  motherless 
thing  being  carried  on  so  long  and  cold  a  journey.  Two 
or  three  of  her  own  children  were  already  in  their  beds 
of  rags  that  were  none  too  clean,  but  they,  at  least,  were 
housed  and  warm,  and  not  like  this  one. 

"Her  name,"  he  replied,  "is  Dorine.  It  was  her 
mother's."  Then  turning  to  the  warder,  who  stood  by, 
he  exclaimed  again,  "  Now  direct  me  to  the  marquis's, 
I  beg  you." 

The  man's  method  of  direction  was  to  seize  by  the 
ear  a  boy  who  at  that  moment  had  come  up — he  was 
one  of  his  own  numerous  brood — and  to  bid  him  lead 
the  monsieur  to  the  marquis's. 

"  'Tis  but  a  pistol  shot,"  he  said,  "  at  the  foot  of  the 
Eampe.  Be  off  !  "  to  his  son,  "  away  !  Escort  the  gen- 
tleman." 

Certainly  it  was  no  great  distance  from  the  southern 


6  IX   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

gate,  yet  when  Monsieur  St.  Georges  had  arrived  there, 
still  leading  his  horse  by  one  hand  and  carrying  his 
precious  burden  by  the  other,  or  by  the  other  arm,  the 
house  had  so  .deserted  a  look  that  it  seemed  as  though 
he  was  hardly  likely  to  be  able  to  carry  out  the  orders 
of  the  king  and  his  minister  to  quarter  himself  upon 
the  marquis  instead  of  going  to  an  inn.  Therefore,  he 
gazed  up  at  the  mansion  before  which  he  stood  waiting, 
wondering  what  kind  of  man  was  this  who  dwelt  in  it. 

The  house  itself  was  large  and  vast,  having  innumer- 
able windows  giving  on  to  a  large,  open,  bare  place  in 
front  of  it,  while  the  great  porte  cochere  had  a  lock 
which  looked  as  though  it  would  resist  an  attack  either 
of  battering  rams  or  gunpowder  if  brought  against  it. 
But  the  blinds,  or  shutters,  were  all  closed ;  the  great 
door  itself  looked  as  though  it  had  not  been  opened  for 
a  century ;  the  knocker — a  Christ  upon  the  cross ! — as 
though  it  had  not  been  raised  for  as  long  a  time. 

"  Ph61ypeaux,"  muttered  St.  Georges  to  himself. 
"  Phelypeaux !  I  know  the  name ;  what  do  I  know  of 
him  ?  Let  me  think.  Ha !  I  have  it.  A  soldier  like 
myself.  Also  another,  a  brother,  .a  priest,  Bishop  of 
Lodeve — which  is  my  host,  I  wonder?  For  choice  the 
soldier,  if  all  is  true  of  the  bishop  that  is  told.  Mon 
enfant"  turning  to  the  urchin,  "  is  the  marquis  soldier 
or  divine?" 

The  boy  laughed,  then  said : 

"  Divine,  monsieur.  But  en  retraite.  Oh  !  avez  pa 
— they  say  droll  things.  Only  I  am  young — I  do  not 
know."  Whereon  he  grinned.  Then  he  exclaimed : 
44  Voila  !  the  door  is  opening." 

It  was,  in  truth,  or  rather  a  wicket  in  the  door  large 
enough  to  admit  a  man  who  should  stoop,  or  the  urchin 
by  the  side  of  St.  Georges ;  but  certainly  by  no  means 


"THE   KING'S  COMMAND."  7 

large  enough  to  admit  of  the  passage  of  his  horse  if  that 
was  also  to  be  entertained  for  the  night. 

At  that  wicket  appeared  a  face,  wine-stained  and 
blotchy,  but  not  so  good-humoured-looking  as  that  of 
the  watchman  at  the  southern  gate.  Instead,  a  scowl- 
ing face,  as  of  a  man  on  whom  good  liquor  had  no  im- 
proving effect,  but,  rather,  had  soured  and  embittered 
him. 

"  What  want  you  ?  "  he  asked,  staring  out  moodily 
at  the  soldier  before  him  and  at  his  horse,  and  observ- 
ing the  great  sword,  hat,  and  cloak  of  the  former  with — 
beneath  the  latter — its  burden ;  and  also  the  military 
trappings  of  the  steed.  "  What  want  you  ?  " 

"  An  audience  of  the  marquis.  By  order  of  the 
king.  Also  food  and  lodging  by  the  same  authority. 
Ma  foil  if  I  had  my  way  I  should  not  demand  it. 
There  is  a  good  auberge  over  there  to  all  appearances," 
nodding  his  head  toward  the  white-walled  inn  on  the 
other  side  of  the  place,  before  which  hung  a  bush  and 
on  which  was  painted  the  whole  length  of  the  house : 
"  IS  Ours  de  Bourgogne.  Logement  a  pied  et  a  clieval" 
"  Doubtless  I  could  be  well  accommodated." 

"  Take  your  horse  there,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  sour- 
faced  man ;  "  there  is  no  accommodation  for  it.  Then 
come  back.  We  will  see  later  about  you."  And  turn- 
ing to  the  boy  he  cried,  gesticulating  with  his  hands : 
"  Va  fen.  Be  off  !  " 

The  lad  did  not  wait  to  be  bidden  a  second  time  to 
depart,  but  scampered  across  the  open  place,  while  St. 
Georges,  regarding  the  morose-looking  man  in  front  of 
him,  said  :  "  My  friend,  neither  your  courtesy  nor  your 
hospitality  is  of  the  best.  Does  your  master  bid  you 
treat  all  who  come  to  visit  him  in  this  manner  ?  " 

"  I  am  obeying  my  master,"  the  other  replied ;  "  the 


8  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

only  one  I  acknowledge — when  I  parley  with  you.  Show 
me  your  warrant,  however,  for  coming  to  this  house." 

"  There  it  is,"  replied  St.  Georges ;  "  take  it  to  your 
master,  bid  him  read  it,  and  then  bring  me  whatever 
message  he  may  send  me.  Perhaps" — regarding  the 
servitor  through  the  wicket,  as  he  gave  him  the  paper — 
"  if  the  master  is  like  the  man  I  had  best  wait  until  he 
has  read  the  king's  letter  ere  I  seek  shelter  for  my 
horse.  It  may  be  that  I  shall  have  to  demand  it  for 
myself  also  at  the  inn." 

Then,  to  his  amazement,  he  saw  that  the  other  had 
opened  the  leaves  of  the  kfng's  letter  and  was  calmly 
reading  them.  "Fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  dare 
you  make  so  bold?  You  read  a  letter  from  the  king 
to  me — to  be  shown  to  your  master " 

"Pish!"  replied  the  other.  "Be  silent.  I  am 
Phelypeaux." 

"You!"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  stepping  back — 
"  you ! "  and  his  eye  fell  on  the  rusty-brown  clothing 
of  the  man  half  in,  half  out,  the  wicket.  "  You  !  " 

"  Yes,  I.  Now  go  and  put  your  horse  up  at  the  inn. 
Then  come  back.  But  stay — what  have  you  beneath 
your  arm  ?  " 

"  A  child." 

"A  child!  Does  Louis  think  I  keep  a  nursery? 
What  are  we  to  do  with  the  child  while  you  stay  here?" 

"  I  will  attend  to  that.  If  you  give  me  a  bed  the 
child  will  share  it,  and  if  you  have  some  white  bread 
and  milk  it  is  enough  for  its  food." 

"  Best  get  that  at  the  '  Ours,' "  replied  he  who  said 
he  was  Phelypeaux.  "  Bread  I  have,  but  no  milk.  Ma 
foil  there  is  no  babes'  food  here.  Now,  I  counsel  you, 
go  seek  the  inn.  Your  horse  may  take  a  chill.  Then 
comeback.  And"— as  the  soldier  turned  to  lead  his 


"THE  KING'S  COMMAND."  9 

animal  across  the  snow-covered,  deserted  place — "  leave 
the  child  there.  The  patronne  is  a  motherly  creature 
with  half  a  dozen  of  her  own  brood.  'Twill  be  better 
there  than  here.  Ring  loudly  when  you  return — I  am 
somewhat  deaf,"  and  he  banged  the  wicket  in  St. 
Georges's  face. 

"  Humph  ! "  muttered  the  latter,  as  he  crossed  to  the 
inn  ;  "  the  counsel  is  good.  That  seems  no  place  for  a 
child.  Yet,  how  to  leave  it  ?  Still,  it  is  best.  It  has 
slept  often  with  its  nurse ;  maybe  will  sleep  well  at  the 
inn.  Well,  let  me  see  what  the  patronne  is  like." 

He  entered  the  yard  of  the  "  Ours  "  as  he  meditated 
thus,  engaged  a  stall  for  the  animal,  saw  it  fed  and 
rubbed  down,  and,  then  taking  his  pistols  and  the 
king's  letter  from  the  holsters  and  putting  them  in  his 
belt,  entered  the  hostelry  and  called  for  a  cup  of  wine. 
And,  seeing  that  the  woman  who  served  him — evidently 
the  mistress  from  the  manner  in  which  she  joked  with 
one  or  two  customers  and  gave  directions  to  a  ser- 
vant— was  a  motherly  looking  woman,  he  asked  her 
if  the  child  he  carried  would  be  safe  there  for  the 
night? 

"  A  child,"  she  exclaimed,  "  a  child,  and  in  the  arms 
of  a  soldier !  Why,  sir,  whence  come  you  with  a  child  ? 
Mon  Dieu  !  Of  all  burdens,  soldiers  rarely  carry  such 
as  that." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  carry  such  a  one.  I  am  on  the 
road  from  Pontarlier  to  Paris  with  my  child,  and  I 
sleep  to-night  across  the  way  at  the  Marquis  Phely- 
peaux's.  It  seems  there  is  no  accommodation  there  for 
infants." 

"  Hein  !  "  screamed  the  woman,  turning  to  the  cus- 
tomers in  the  place ;  "  you  hear  that  ?  "  Then  address- 
ing herself  to  St.  Georges,  she  continued  :  "  You  speak 
2 


-10  IN   THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

well,  monsieur  ;  that  is  no  place  for  children.     Ma  foi ! 
the  old  scelerat  would  be  as  like  to  eat  it." 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOSPITALITY  ! 

"  WHO,  then,  is  Phelypeaux  ?  "  asked  St.  Georges  as 
he  sat  himself  down  in  front  of  the  great  kitchen  fire — 
the  kitchen  serving  always  in  a  Burgundian  inn  as  the 
general  place  of  assembly  and  serving  room.  "  Who  is 
Phelypeaux  ?  " 

"Monsieur  does  not,  in  truth,  know?"  she  replied, 
with  a  glance  at  the  customers — one  a  mousquetaire, 
himself  en  route  to  Bar  to  join  his  regiment,  and  the 
other  evidently  a  shopkeeper  of  the  place.  The  former 
had  risen  and  saluted  St.  Georges  as  he  entered,  seeing 
by  his  accoutrements  and  lace  *  that  he  was  an  officer, 
and  now  he  joined  in  the  conversation  deferentially. 

"  In  truth,  monsieur,  he  is  a  rarity,  an  oddity.  He 
is  priest  and  bishop  both " 

"  So,"  interrupted  St.  Georges,  "  he  is  the  Bishop  of 
Lod6ve.  I  have  heard  of  him.  He  has  a  brother,  I 
think,  comrade,  who  follows  our  profession." 

"That  is  true,  monsieur.  One  who  will  go  far. 
'Twas  but  last  year  the  king  sent  him  ambassador  to 
Cologne ;  now  they  say  he  goes  to  Turin." 

"  So,  so.  But  this  one  here — this  bishop  ?  And  if 
Bishop  of  Lodeve,  what  does  he  do  in  Burgundy?  " 

*  The  various  chevaux-legers  had  not  as  yet  been  put  by  Louis 
into  uniform,  as  was  the  case  a  few  years  before,  with  most  of  tho 
French  regiment-. 


HOSPITALITY!  11 

"Villainies,  sceleratesses"  interrupted  the  hostess, 
turning  away  from  the  fowl  she  was  basting  on  the  spit 
and  emphasizing  her  remarks  with  her  great  wooden 
spoon.  "  Oh  !  figure  to  yourself — he  is  a  villain.  Ma 
foi,  oui!  A  bishop!  Ha!  A  true  one.  Boasts  he 
believes  not  in  a  God,  yet  rules  Languedoc  with  a  rod 
of  iron  since  Cardinal  Bonzi  fell  off  his  perch ;  enter- 
tains the  wickedest  mondaines  of  Louis's  court  as  they, 
pass  through  Lodeve ;  has  boys  to  sing  to  him  while  he 
dines  and — and —  But  there,"  she  concluded  as  she 
turned  to  the  fowl  again ;  "  he  is  a  Phely.peaux.  That 
tells  all.  They  are  sacred  with  the  king." 

"But  why?"  asked  St.  Georges,  as  he  rose  from 
his  seat — "but  why?  What  does  he  here  if  he  rules 
Languedoc,  and  why  should  Phelypeaux  be  a  charmed 
name?  Tell  me  before  I  go." 

He  had  made  arrangements  with  the  good  woman 
to  leave  his  child  there  for  the  night,  she  swearing  by 
many  saints  that  it  should  sleep  with  her  own  and  be  as 
carefully  guarded  and  as  precious  as  they  were.  So  he 
had  confided  it  to  her  care,  saying :  "  Remember,  'tis 
motherless,  and,  besides,  is  all  I  have  in  the  world,  all 
I  have  left  to  me  of  my  dead  wife.  Remember  that,  I 
beseech  you,  as  you  are  a  mother  yourself  " ;  and  she, 
being  a  mother  and  a  true  one,  promised.  Therefore  it 
was  now  sleeping  peacefully  upstairs,  its  little  arms 
around  the  neck  of  one  of  her  own  children. 

"  Why,  monsieur,  why  is  he  here  and  why  does  he 
bear  a  charmed  name?"  repeated  the  other  customer, 
the  fion  bourgeois,  joining  in  the  conversation  for  the 
first  time.  "  I  will  tell  you.  First,  he  comes  regularly 
to  take  his  rights  of  seigniorage,  his  rents,  his  taxes,  his 
fourths  of  all  the  produce  of  his  vineyards  and  arable 
lands  on  our  Cote  dlOr.  They  are  rich,  these  Phely- 


12  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

peaux ;  have  been  ever  since  the  days  of  Charles  the 
Bold,  and  they  are  greedy  and  grasping.  Also  they  are 
great  and  powerful — they  are  of  the  Pontchartrain  blood, 
and  are  of  the  court.  One  was  minister  to  the  late 
king  under  the  cardinal.  And  for  being  bishop,  tiens  ! 
he  was  priest  under  Mazarin,  who  had  been  a  cavalry- 
man, as  monsieur  is  himself.  It  was  Barberini  who  told 
him  the  gown  was  better  than  the  sword.  And  it  was 
Mazarin  who  made  Phelypeaux  bishop.  To  silence  him, 
you  understand,  monsieur — to  silence  him.  He  knew 
too  much." 

"  What  did  he  know  ?"  asked  the  soldier,  lifting  his 
cup  to  his  lips  for  the  last  time,  though  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  bourgeois  as  he  spoke. 

"  Ha !  he  knew  much.  The  king's  first  love  for  La 
Beauvais — his  first  love — then  for  Marie  de  Mancini  and 
for  La  Mothe  Houdancourt.  Also  he  knew  Turenne 
and  Conde — and  also  much  more  than  the  world  knew 
or  will  ever  know." 

"  Turenne  and  Conde ! "  St.  Georges  echoed.  "  Two 
great  captains.  Two  great  rivals  and  friends !  So ! 
Perhaps  he  will  tell  me  something  of  them  to-night. 
They  are  names  for  a  soldier  to  respect.  Bon  soir,  la 
compagnie"  and  he  made  toward  the  door. 

They  wished  him  good-night,  the  hostess  telling  him 
to  have  no  fear,  the  child  should  be  well  attended  to, 
and  the  mousquetaire  saluting  him ;  then  the  latter  said  : 
"  Monsieur  rides  north  again  to-morrow,  as  I  heard  him 
say.  I  too  go  forward  to  Bar.  'if  monsieur  permits, 
and  since  the  roads  are  bad  and  often  infested  with  vile 
characters,  I  will  ride  part  way  with  him." 

St.  Georges  looked  at  the  young  man ;  observed  his 
stalwart  frame — as  big  as  his  own — his  honest  face  and 
clear  gray  eyes,  the  former  ruddy  with  many  a  march 


HOSPITALITY !  13 

and  much  exposure ;  then  he  said :  "  Soit !  We  will 
ride  together ;  Bar  is  more  than  twenty  leagues  on  the 
journey  I  have  to  make.  "We  must  part  before  it  is 
reached.  Still,  let  us  set  out  together.  At  what  hour 
do  you  leave  ?  " 

"As  soon  after  day  break  as  possible,  monsieur,  if  that 
is  convenient." 

"  It  shall  be.  I  will  quit  Phelypeaux  at  the  dawn." 
Then  St.  Georges  added  aside:  "Comrade,  I  leave  here 
in  the  inn  the  two  things  dearest  to  me  in  the  world — 
my  child  and  horse.  I  confide  them  to  you.  Will  you 
accept  the  trust  until  the  morning  ?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  will,  monsieur.  Trust  me.  Ere 
I  sleep  to-night  I  will  see  that  all  is  well  with  both. 
You  may  depend  on  me." 

"  So  be  it,"  replied  St.  Georges.  "  I  do  depend  on 
you.  Farewell  till  dawn,"  and  he  strode  across  the 
great,  gaunt  place,  on  which  the  snow  still  fell  and  lay. 

"  '  King  loud ! '  the  old  man  said,"  he  muttered  to 
himself ;  "  well,  here's  for  it,"  and  he  pulled  a  peal  on 
the  bell  chain  hanging  by  the  side  of  the  door  that 
might  have  waked  the  dead.  Then,  as  he  stood  there 
musing  on  why  the  king  should  have  given  him  orders 
to  put  up  at  such  a  place  as  Phelypeaux's  instead  of 
enjoying  the  solid,  if  rough,  comfort  of  a  Burgundian 
inn,  the  wicket  opened  again  and  the  old  man's  sour 
face  appeared  once  more  at  it. 

"  So  ! "  he  said,  "  you  have  come  back.  And  I  per- 
ceive you  have  left  the  child  behind  you.  'Tis  well. 
We  have  no  room  for  children  here.  Come  in,  come 
in,"  he  added  snappishly. 

Obeying  an  invitation  given  in  none  too  warm  a  tone, 
St.  Georges  stepped  through  the  wicket  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  house — a  place  filled  with  snow  that  had 


14:  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

lain  there  and  increased  since  the  first  flake  had  fallen 
until  now,  and  through  which  a  thin  path  or  track  had 
been  trodden  from  the  great  doorway  to  a  smaller  one 
that  admitted  to  the  house. 

"  You  perceive,"  remarked  Phelypeau,  "  this  is  not  a 
luxurious  halting  for  you,  monsieur.  Still,  the  chevaux- 
Ugers  are  doubtless  used  to  an  absence  of  luxury." 

"  The  chevaux-Ugers  can  make  shift  with  anything," 
replied  the  soldier.  And  shrugging  his  shoulders  as  he 
spoke,  he  said :  "  Monseigneur  FEveque,  why  do  you  im- 
agine his  Majesty  has  instructed  me  to  become  your 
guest  for  a  night  ?  " 

He  spoke  without  any  of  that  respect  usually  shown 
to  exalted  members  of  the  Church  in  the  days  of  Louis 
XIV — a  monarch  who  considered  himself  a  religious 
man,  and  demanded  that  the  most  scrupulous  reverence 
should  be  paid  to  all  things  ecclesiastical.  But,  in 
truth,  the  Bishop  of  Lodeve  was  known  to  be  a  scandal 
to  the  sacred  calling  he  belonged  to;  and  now  that 
Georges  St.  Georges  was  aware  that  he  was  face  to  face 
with  the  man  himself,  he  refused  to  testify  a  respect  for 
him  that  he  could  not  feel. 

"  Humph !  *  Monseigneur  1'Eve'que ! '  Ha !  So  you 
know  me?"  St.  Georges  nodded,  whereon  the  other 
went  on : 

"  Why  the  king  has  sent  you  to  me  ?  Eh  ?  Per- 
haps because  he  thinks  I  am  a  good  host,  and  because 
he  loves  his  troops  to  be  well  treated.  So  I  am  a  good 
host — only  it  is  when  I  am  in  Languedoc.  Here,  mal- 
heureusement,  I  must  be  perforce  a  bad  one.  I  have  no 
servants  but  those  I  have  brought  with  me,  and  one  or 
two  women  who  look  after  the  chateau  during  my  ab- 
sence." 

He  had  by  this  time  opened  the  door  into  the  house 


HOSPITALITY !  15 

and  escorted  his  visitor  into  a  large,  desolate-looking 
saloon,  on  the  walls  of  which  the  damp  hung  in  huge 
beads  and  drops,  and  in  which  there  was  a  fireplace  of 
vast  dimensions  that  gave  the  appearance  of  never  hav- 
ing had  a  fire  lighted  in  it  for  years.  Yet  before  this 
fireplace  there  stood  two  great  armchairs,  as  though  to 
suggest  that  here  was  a  comfortable,  cosey  spot  in  which 
to  sit. 

"  "We'll  soon  have  a  fire,"  said  this  strange  creature, 
whereon  he  went  to  a  corner  of  the  room  in  which  hung 
some  arras,  and,  thrusting  it  aside,  brought  forth  a 
handful  of  kindling  wood,  two  or  three  green,  newly 
cut  logs  of  different  sizes,  and  some  shavings,  to  which 
he  applied  the  tinder  after  he  had  thrown  them  all  pell- 
mell  into  the  grate  together.  Then,  when  the  smoke 
which  arose  from  the  damp  green  wood  had  thoroughly 
permeated  the  whole  of  the  room,  he  looked  round  at 
St.  Georges  and  said  : 

"  You  were  gone  some  while  to  the  '  Ours.'  Did 
you  sup  there  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  other,  glancing  at  him  through 
the  smoke  and  by  aid  of  the  single  candle  by  which  the 
room  was  illuminated,  for  it  was  now  night.  "  Nay, 
monseigneur,  I  thought  to  sup  with  you." 

"And  so  you  shall,"  exclaimed  Phelypeaux,  with  an 
assumed  air  of  hilarity — "and  so  you  shall.  Only — I 
cannot  entertain  you  as  in  Languedoc.  Now,  if  we 
were  there " 

"  Well,"  said  the  soldier,  "  we  are  not.  "We  are  in 
Burgundy.  The  land  of  good  cheer.  We  must  take 
what  Burgundy  offers." 

"  Helas !  it  offers  little.  At  least  in  this  house. 
However,  I  will  see."  Saying  which  he  opened  a  door 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  calling,  "  Pierre, 


16  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Pierre ! "  loudly,  he  cried  out,  after  a  harsh  voice  had 
answered  him  from  some  distant  room :  "  Bring  some 
supper  for  Monsieur  St.  Georges  and  myself.  For  Mon- 
sieur St.  Georges  and  myself.  You  understand !  For 
Monsieur  St.  Georges  and  myself." 

"  Why  emphasize  '  Monsieur  St.  Georges '  so  strongly, 
monseigneur  ?  "  the  other  demanded.  "  The  respected 
servitor  can  hardly  care  much  whether  he  bring  supper 
for  you  and  Monsieur  St.  Georges  or  for  you  and  Mon- 
sieur the  dev —  I  beg  your  pardon,  monseigneur." 

The  Bishop  of  Lodeve  laughed  a  kind  of  grim, 
uncanny  laugh  as  St.  Georges  said  this,  then  he  re- 
marked : 

"Surely  you  don't  believe  in — in — the  gentleman 
you  were  about  to  mention.  Let  me  see,  there  is  a 
musty  proverb  that  he  who  sups  with  that  personage 
needs  a  long  spoon.  Well,  I  would  not  sup  with  him — 
if  he  exists.  Our  supper  will  be  none  too  profuse  as  it 
is,"  and  again  he  laughed. 

So,  indeed,  it  seemed,  judging  by  what  Pierre 
brought  in  later.  The  soup,  served  in  a  handsome 
silver  tureen,  whose  antique  form  and  chasings  must 
have  dated  back  to  the  days  of  Henri  de  Navarre  at 
latest,  was  so  thin  that  it  was  nothing  but  boiling  water 
with  a  greasy  flavour,  and  St.  Georges  twisted  his  long 
mustaches  with  dismay  as  he  gazed  into  the  stuff  be- 
fore him.  Moreover,  the  bread  with  which  he  endeav- 
oured to  fortify  this  meagre  commencement  was  half 
baked,  so  that  it  was  of  the  consistency  of  dough.  Next, 
the  meat  which  was  brought  to  table  must  have  been 
unkilled  at  the  time  he  rode  into  Dijon,  so  tough  and 
tasteless  was  it ;  and  the  wine  was  a  disgrace  to  France, 
let  alone  to  Burgundy,  where  every  peasant  can  obtain 
a  drink  that  is  palatable  if  weak.  And,  to  add  to  the 


HOSPITALITY !  17 

other  miseries  of  this  regale,  the  tablecloth  and  nap- 
kins were  so  damp  that,  affected  by  the  tureen  and 
plates,  which  were  hot  if  they  possessed  no  other  virtues 
— such  as  eatable  food  upon  them — they  smoked  so 
much  that  the  guest  could  scarcely  see  his  host  across 
the  table. 

"  Not  the  fare  of  Languedoc,"  this  worthy  divine 
muttered,  once  or  twice,  "  not  the  fare  of  Languedoc. 
Ah,  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  you  must  come  and  see  me 
in  my  bishopric  if  you  want  to  live  well.  I  can  give 
you  a  good  supper  there." 

"  So  I  have  heard,  monseigneur.  With  many  other 
things  as  well.  Music,  I  hear,  accompanies  your  feasts ; 
the  voices  of  silver-tongued  lads " 

"  Ha !  "  chuckled  the  other,  "  you  have  heard  that. 
Well,  why  not  ?  The  choir  is  lazy,  and — since  it  costs 
me  nothing — may  as  well  sing  at  my  table.  Now,  since 
I  cannot  persuade  you  to  eat  more,"  St.  Georges  having 
pushed  his  plate  away  from  him  with  an  action  of  dis- 
gust, "  let  us  have  a  little  talk. — Pierre,  go  away ;  we 
wish  to  be  alone.  Though — stay — first  of  all  bring  a 
bottle  of  the  old  clos  from  the  buffet — the  old  clos, 
you  understand,  the  '7.9  bottling." 

The  cavalryman  wondered  if  the  "old  clos"  was 
likely  to  be  any  better  than  the  vinaigrous  stuff  he  had 
just  been  treated  to,  and  sat  waiting  its  arrival  with 
curiosity,  if  not  impatience.  Meanwhile,  he  regarded 
his  host  from  under  his  eyelids  as  well  as  he  could 
through  the  mist  made  by  the  still  steaming  napkins, 
and  also  by  the  wet,  hissing  logs  which  spluttered  and 
reeked  in  the  grate  close  by  which  the  table  had  been 
drawn  up.  The  old  man,  he  saw,  was  perfectly  cog- 
nizant that  he  was  being  observed ;  occasionally  from 
under  his  eyelids  he  would  shoot  a  glance  in  his  turn  at 


18  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  great  form  of  the  *  chevau-Uger  near  him,  and 
would  then  smile  in  what  he  evidently  intended  to  be 
an  engaging  manner;  while  at  other  times  he  would 
swiftly  remove  his  eyes  and  gaze  meditatively  into  the 
green  wood  that  smouldered  on  the  andirons. 

Then  Pierre  came  back  with  a  bottle  that  appeared, 
outwardly  at  least,  to  give  promise  of  containing  good 
liquor  within  it,  since  it  was  covered  with  dust  and  cob- 
webs, and,  uncorking  it  and  placing  two  long,  thin, 
tapering  glasses  by  its  side,  withdrew — yet  not  before 
Phelypeaux,  with  that  remarkable  persistency  in  men- 
tioning his  guest's  name  which  the  latter  had  previously 
remarked,  had  called  out : 

"Fill  Monsieur  St.  Georges's  glass,  Pierre.  Fill  it, 
I  say.  Fill  the  glass  of  Monsieur  St.  Georges. — Mon- 
sieur St.  Georges,"  raising  his  own,  "  I  drink  to  you. 
To  your  good  health  and  prosperous  ride  to  Paris.  And 
afterward,  Monsieur  St.  Georges — afterward." 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT   IS  THE  MAN. 

THE  wine  was  good !  "Worthy  of  whatever  clos  it 
had  ripened  on !  A  glass  of  it  went  far  to  repay  St. 
Georges  for  any  discomfort  he  had  suffered  during  the 
wretched  meal  just  concluded,  and  made  amends  for  all 
that  had  passed  hitherto.  As  for  the  Bishop  of  Lode"  ve, 
he  drank  two  glasses  rapidly  in  succession,  smacked  his 
lips,  and  peered  at  the  ruby  liquid  held  between  the 

*  Cheval-leger  is  a  modern  rendering  of  the  old  term. 


IT  IS  THE  MAN".  19 

guttering  candle  and  his  eye  in  the  most  approved  fash- 
ion, and  seemed  to  be  making  or  receiving  amends  for 
the  miserable  meal  he  had  also  partaken  of,  though  so 
sparingly  that  the  soldier  thought  he  must  either  have 
made  a  better  one  recently  or  be  about  to  make  one 
later  on. 

Then,  after  he  had  put  three  of  the  logs  together — 
which  seemed  at  last  as  though  about  to  burn  with  some 
effect — by  the  summary  method  of  kicking  them  close 
to  each  other  with  his  foot,  he  said  quietly,  though  quite 
unexpectedly  on  the  part  of  the  other : 

"  His  Most  Christian  Majesty — or  rather  Louvois  for 
him — wrote  me  that  I  might  expect  a  visit  from  you  on 
your  way  from  Franche-Comte  to  Paris." 

"  Indeed ! "  said  St.  Georges,  looking,  as  he  felt, 
astonished.  After  which  he  added  :  "  Truly,  for  a  poor 
lieutenant  of  horse,  such  as  I  am,  the  king  seems  much 
interested  in  my  doings.  I  marvel  much  that  he  should 
be  so." 

"  Family  interest,  perhaps  ?  "  said  the  bishop,  glint- 
ing an  eye  at  him  from  behind  the  glass  which  he  was 
again  holding  up  to  the  light  of  the  guttering  candle. 
"  Family  interest  is  useful  at  court." 

"  Family  interest ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  pushing  his 
glass  away  from  him.  "  Monseigneur,  it  is  evident  you 
know  nothing  of  Georges  St.  Georges,  or  you  would  not 
mention  that.  Still,  how  should  you  know  my  affairs?  " 

"  How,  indeed  ! "  replied  Phelypeaux,  though  again 
there  was  a  flash  from  the  eye — "  how,  indeed !  I — I 
never  heard  of  you  until  his  Majesty  said  you  would 
honour  me  with  a  visit.  Yet,  Captain — I  mean  Mon- 
sieur— St.  Georges,  there  must  be  something  which 
guides  Louis  in  sending  for  you — in  removing  you 
from  the  miserable  garrison  in  the  Jura  to  Paris.  Ah, 


20  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Paris  ! "  he  interjected  with  an  upward  glance.  "  Paris  ! 
Paris ! "  But  having  recovered  from  this  fervent  ec- 
stasy, he  continued  :  "  And  if  not  family  interest — I  am 
a  believer  in  family  interest  myself — what  can  it  be? 
Unless,  of  course,  you  have  been  selected  because  of 
your  military  promise." 

"  Nor  can  it  be  that  either,"  replied  the  guest.  "  I 
have  been  in  garrison  at  Pontarlier  for  a  year,  and  as 
for  my  service,  why  I  have  done  nothing  to  distinguish 
myself.  No  more  than  thousands  of  his  Majesty's 
troops  have  done — nay,  not  half  so  much." 

"  How  old  are  you,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Thirty-three." 

"  Ah,"  replied  monseigneur,  "  and  this  is  the  third 
day  of  '88.  So  you  were  born  in  1655.  Ah!"  and  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  muttered  to  himself,  though 
once  he  said  quite  audibly :  "  Yes,  yes.  That  would  do 
very  well." 

"What  would  do  very  well,  monseigneur?"  asked 
the  other,  looking  at  him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  replied  the  bishop,  and  St.  Georges 
could  not  help  remarking  how  much  more  courtly  his 
manner  had  become  by  degrees,  so  that,  while  heretofore 
it  was  quite  in  keeping  with  what  he  had  originally  im- 
agined him  to  be — a  servitor — it  was  now  thoroughly 
suitable  to  his  position — the  position  of 'a  member  of  an 
old  French  family  and  of  a  father  of  the  Church ;  "  par- 
don me,  my  mind  rambles  sometimes  when — when  I 
throw  it  back.  I  was  reflecting  that — that — it  was  in 
that  year  I  was  made  bishop.  So  you  were  born  in 
1655  ?  And  how — since  you  say  you  have  none  of  that 
valuable  family  interest— did  you  become  a  chevau- 
Uger?" 

"  It  is  somewhat  of  a  story,  and  a  long  one.     Hark  ! 


IT  IS  THE  MAN.  21 

surely  that  is  the  cathedral  clock  striking.  It  is  too 
late  to  pester  you  with  my  affairs." 

"  Not  a  jot,"  exclaimed  Phelypeaux — "  not  a  jot. 
Nay,  tell  the  story,  and — shall  we  crack  another  bottle 
oftheclos?  It  is  good  wine." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  replied  St.  Georges,  "  excellent.  Yet 
I  will  drink  no  more.  Three  glasses  are  all  I  allow  my- 
self after  supper  at  the  best  of  times.  And,  after  all,  my 
history  will  not  take  long  in  telling.  At  least  such  por- 
tions of  it  as  I  need  tell  you." 

"  Tell  me  all.  I  love  to  hear  the  history  of  the 
young  and  adventurous,  as  you  are — as  you  must  be. 
The  chevaux-legers  encounter  adventure  even  in  gar- 
rison," and  he  leered  at  him. 

"  I  have  encountered  none,  or  very  few.  A  few  in- 
decisive campaigns  against  Holland  in  the  year  the  king 
gave  me  my  commission — namely,  fourteen  years  ago — 
then  the  Peace  of  Nimeguen,  and  since  then  stagnation 
in  various  garrisons.  Yet  they  say  the  time  is  coming 
for  war.  Holland  seeks  allies  everywhere  against  France ; 
soon  a  great  campaign  should  occur." 

"  Without  doubt,  when  his  Most  Christian  Majesty 
will  triumph  as  he  has  done  before.  But  why — how — 
did  you  obtain  your  commission  ?  You  do  not  tell  me 
that." 

"  No,  I  had  forgotten.  Yet  'tis  not  much  to  tell. 
My  mother — an  English  woman — excuse  me,  Monsei- 
gneur  1'Eveque,  but  you  have  spilt  your  wine." 

"  So,  indeed,  I  have,"  said  the  bishop,  sopping  up 
the  wine  which  his  elbow  had  overturned  by  a  sudden 
jerk  while  the  other  was  speaking,  "  so,  indeed,  I  have. 
But  'tis  not  much.  And  there  is  still  that  other  bottle 
uncorked."  Then  with  a  sidelong  glance  he  said  :  "  So 
your  mother  was  an  English  woman.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu, 


22  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

elles  sont  belles,  ces  Anglaises!  An  English  woman. 
\\\-ll,  well !  " 

"  Yes,  an  English  woman.  Daughter  of  a  Protestant 
cavalier  who  left  England  when  the  Commonwealth  was 
declared.  He  had  done  his  best  for  the  king,  but  with 
his  death  he  could  do  no  more.  So  he  quitted  his  coun- 
try forever." 

"  Most  interesting,"  exclaimed  the  bishop,  "  but  your 
father,  Monsieur  St.  Georges.  Who  was  he  ?  Of  the 
St.  Georges's  family,  perhaps,  of  Auvergne  !  Or  another 
branch,  of  Dauphine  !  A  noble  family  is  that  of  St. 
Georges ! " 

"  He  was  of  the  branch  in  Auvergne.  A  humble 
member,  but  still  of  it.  I  know  no  more." 

"  No  more  ?  " 

«  No." 

"Humph!  Strange!  Pardon  me,  monsieur,  I 
would  not  ask  a  delicate  question — but — but — did  not 
the  family  recognise  the  marriage  of  Monsieur  St. 
Georges?" 

"They  did  not  recognise  it  for  the  simple  reason 
that  they  were  never  told  of  it.  It  did  not  please  my 
father  to  divulge  the  marriage  to  his  family,  so  they 
were  left  in  ignorance  that  it  had  ever  taken  place." 

"And  was  Monsieur  St.  Georges — your  father — a 
soldier  like  yourself  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  soldier  like  myself.  And  served  against 
Conde." 

"  Against  Conde.  Under  Turenne,  doubtless  ?  "  and 
once  more  he  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  visitor. 

"  Yes.  Under  Turenne.  They  were,  I  have  heard, 
more  than  commander  and  subordinate.  They  were 
friends." 

"  A  great  friendship ! "  exclaimed  the  bishop.     "  A 


IT  IS  THE  MAN.  23 

great  friendship  !  To  his  influence  you  doubtless  owe 
your  commission,  obtained,  I  think  you  said,  in  '74,  the 
year  before  Turenne's  death." 

"  Doubtless.  So  my  father  said.  He  died  in  the 
same  year  as  the  marshal." 

"  In  battle,  too,  no  doubt  ? "  Then,  seeing  a  look 
upon  the  other's  face  which  seemed  to  express  a  desire 
for  no  more  questioning — though,  indeed,  he  bowed 
gravely  at  the  question  if  his  father  had  died  in  battle — 
monseigneur  with  a  polite  bow  said  he  would  ask  him 
no  more  impertinent  questions,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation by  exclaiming  : 

"  But  you  must  be  weary,  monsieur.  You  would 
rest,  I  am  sure.  I  will  call  Pierre  to  show  you  to  your 
room.  Your  child  will  sleep  better  at  the  '  Ours '  than 
you  will  do  here,  since  my  accommodation  is  not  of  the 
first  order,  owing  to  my  being  able  to  inhabit  the  house 
so  little.  But  we  have  done  our  best.  We  have  done 
our  best." 

"  I  thank  you,"  the  soldier  said,  rising  from  his 
chair.  "  Now,  monseigneur,  let  me  pay  my  farewells  to 
you  at  the  same  time  I  say  '  Good-night.'  I  propose  to 
ride  to-morrow  at  daybreak,  and  if  possible  to  reach 
Bar  by  night.  Though  much  I  doubt  doing  so;  my 
horse  is  jaded  already,  and  can  scarce  compass  a  league 
an  hour.  And  'tis  more  than  twenty  leagues  from  here, 
I  take  it." 

"Ay,  'tis.  More  like  twenty-five.  And  you  have, 
you  know,  a  burden.  You  carry  weight.  There  is  the 
little  child." 

"  Yes,  there  is  the  child." 

"  You  guard  it  carefully,  Monsieur  St.  Georges.  By 
the  way,  you  have  not  told  me.  Where  is  its  mother, 
your  wife  ?  " 


24  IX   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Again  the  soldier  answered  as  he  had  before  an- 
swered to  the  watchman's  wife — yet,  he  knew  not  why, 
he  felt  more  repugnance  in  speaking  of  his  dead  wife  to 
this  strange  bishop  than  he  had  when  addressing  either 
that  simple  woman  or  the  landlady  of  the  "  Ours."  But 
it  had  to  be  done — he  could  not  make  a  secret  of  what 
was,  in  fact,  no  secret.  So  he  answered,  speaking  rap- 
idly, as  though  desirous  of  getting  his  answer  over  : 

"  She  is  dead.  Our  existence  together  was  short. 
We  loved  each  other  dearly,  but  it  pleased  God  to  take 
her  from  me.  She  died  a  year  after  our  marriage,  in 
giving  birth  to  the  babe." 

Phelypeaux  bowed  his  head  gravely,  as  though,  per- 
haps, intending  thereby  to  express  sympathy  with  the 
other,  and  said,  "  It  was  sad,  very  sad."  Then  he  con- 
tinued : 

"And  madame — pauvre  dame! — was  she,  too,  Eng- 
lish, or  of  some  French  family  ?  " 

"  She  was,  monseigneur,  a  simple  French  girl.  Of 
no  family — such  as  you,  monseigneur,  would  know  of. 
A  girl  of  the  people,  of  the  bourgeoisie.  Yet  I  loved 
her;  she  became  my  wife,  and  now — now" — and  he 
looked  meditatively  down  into  the  ashes  of  the  (by  this 
time)  charred  and  burnt-out  logs — "  I  have  no  wife. 
That  is  all.  Monseigneur,  permit  me  to  wish  you  good- 
night." 

The  bishop  rang  the  bell,  and  while  they  waited  for 
Pierre  to  come,  he  said  : 

"  You  asked  me,  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  this  evening, 
why  his  Most  Christian  Majesty  should  have  thought 
fit  through  Louvois  to  direct  you  to  stay  at  my  house  in 
Dijon  ?  I  shall  not  see  you  to-morrow  ere  you  depart ; 
let  me  therefore  be  frank.  The  king — and  Louvois 
also — are  in  correspondence  with  me  on  a  political  mat- 


IT  IS  THE  MAN.  25 

ter,  which  must  not  even  be  trusted  to  the  post,  nor  to 
courier,  nor  messenger.  Nay,  we  do  not  even  write 
what  we  have  to  say,  but,  instead,  correspond  by  words 
and  signs.  Now,  you  are  a  trusty  man — you  will  go  far 
'  — already  I  see  your  captaincy  of  a  troop  looming  up 
before  you.  Therefore  I  will  send  by  you  one  word  and 
one  alone.  You  cannot  forget  it,  for  it  is  perhaps  the 
simplest  in  our  or  any  language.  You  will  convey  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  king's  servant.  What  is  the  word,  mon- 
seigneur  ?  " 

"The  word 'Fes.'" 

"  The  word  '  YesJ  "  the  chevau-Uger  repeated.  "  The 
word  '  Yes:  That  is  it  ?  No  more  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more.  Simply  the  word  '  Yes.1  Yet  stay, 
remember  my  instructions.  The  word  is  sent  as  much 
to  Louvois  as  to  the  king.  It  is  a  common  message  to 
both.  And  there  is  one  other  thing.  The  Marquise  de 
Roquemaure  is  also  concerned  in  this  matter ;  she  will 
without  doubt  ask  you  what  the  word  is  I  have  sent. 
And,  monsieur,  there  is  no  need  of  secrecy  with  her. 
You  may  frankly  tell  her." 

Again  with  military  precision  the  other  made  sure 
of  his  instructions. 

"  I  may  say  that  the  word  you  send  is  '  Yes '  f  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  I  shall  remember." 

And  now,  Pierre  coming  in,  the  bishop  bade  him 
farewell  and  good-night. 

"  The  bed,  I  trust,"  he  said,  addressing  the  servant, 
"  is  as  comfortable  as  may  be  under  the  circumstances. 
Also  properly  aired.  For  Monsieur  St.  Georges  must 
sleep  well  to-night.  He  rides  to  Troyes  to-morrow  or 
as  far  upon  his  road  as  he  can  get.  He  must  sleep  well." 

"  So !  he  rides  to  Troyes  to-morrow,"  repeated  the 


26  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

domestic,  surlily — "  to  Troyes,  eh  ?  And  at  what  hour 
does  Monsieur  St.  Georges  set  forth?  I  must  know,  so 
that  he  shall  be  called." 

"  At  daybreak,"  St.  Georges  replied. 

The  man  led  him  after  this  up.  some  great  stairs, 
evidently  the  principal  ones  of  the  mansion,  and  past 
what  were  the  chief  salons,  holding  the  lantern  he 
carried  above  his  head  all  the  way  and  casting  thereby 
weird  shadows  on  to  walls  and  corners.  Then  up  an- 
other flight  they  went — their  feet  echoing  now  on  the 
bare,  uncarpeted  stairs,  and  so  along  a  corridor  until  at 
the  end  the  man  opened  a  door  and  ushered  the  guest 
into  a  moderately  sized  room  very  sparsely  furnished  in 
all  except  the  bed,  which  was  large  enough  for  three 
men  to  have  slept  in  side  by  side.  Next,  lighting  a 
taper  which  looked  as  though  it  might  burn  ten  min- 
utes but  not  longer,  he  gruffly  bade  St.  Georges  "  Good- 
night," and,  saying  that  he  should  be  called  before  day- 
break, he  strode  away,  while  the  other  heard  his  heavy 
footfall  gradually  grow  fainter  and  fainter  until,  at  last, 
there  was  no  further  sound  in  the  house  except  the 
banging  of  a  door  now  and  again. 

"Norn  (Fun  chien!"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  as  he 
unbuckled  his  spurs,  drew  off  his  long  riding  boots, 
and,  unsheathing  his  sword,  laid  it  along  the  side  of  the 
bed  nearest  the  wall,  "  this  is  a  pleasant  hole  for  a  man 
to  find  himself  in."  And  throwing  himself  on  the  bed, 
and  discovering  that,  as  he  drew  the  counterpane  up 
about  his  shoulders,  it  was  so  short  that  it  did  not  reach 
below  his  knees,  he  wrapped  up  the  lower  part  of  his 
body  in  the  great  cloak  in  which  he  had  carried  the 
child  all  day,  and  so,  shivering  with  cold,  went  at  last 
to  sleep. 

Down  below,  while  this  had  been  going  on,  Pierre 


"IN  THE  PATH   OP  OTHERS'  GREED."  27 

had  rejoined  his  master,  and,  standing  before  him,  was 
answering  several  questions  put  with  great  rapidity. 

"  Your  horse  is  sound  ?  "  the  bishop  asked,  as  now 
he  partook  of  a  glass  out  of  the  second  bottle. 

"  Ay,  it  is  sound,"  replied  the  other.  "  It  has  not 
left  the  stable  for  three  days." 

"  You  can,  therefore,  ride  forth  to-morrow." 

"  Further  than  he  can,  weather  permitting." 

"  Good.  Therefore  ride  ahead  of  him  until  you 
meet  the  Marquis  de  Eoquemaure.  Then  you  can 
deliver  to  him  a  message  somewhat  similar  to  the  one 
he  will  deliver  to  the  mother  of  the  noble  marquis." 

"  What  is  the  message  ?  " 

"  The  message  he  will  deliver  to  madame  la  marquise 
— if  he  is  fortunate  enough  to  see  her — is  the  word 
'  Yes.'  The  message  you  will  deliver  to  her  son,  whom 
you  must  see,  is  also  '  Yes.'  And,  if  you  can  remember, 
you  may  also  say  to  the  marquis,  '  It  is  the  man.'  Can 
you  remember?" 

"  Without  doubt  I  can.  The  words  are :  '  Yes.  It  is 
the  man.' " 

"  Those  are  the  words." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  HER   LIFE   STANDS   IN  THE   PATH  OF  OTHERS'  GREED." 

AWAKENED  in  the  dark  of  the  morning  by  a  loud 
knocking  on  the  door,  St.  Georges  sprang  off  the  bed 
and  called  lustily  to  know  who  was  there  ? 

"  It  is  near  dawn,"  a  female  voice  answered.  "  Mon- 
sieur was  to  be  awakened." 


28  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"Where  is  the  man  called  Pierre?"  asked  St. 
Georges,  perceiving  that  the  tones  were  not  his  gruff 
ones. 

"  He  has  gone  forth  to  one  of  the  bishop's  farms  at 
Pou illy.  He  bade  me  call  monsieur." 

"  And  the  bishop  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur  is  not  yet  risen.  There  is  a  meal 
prepared  for  monsieur  below,  if  he  will  partake  of  it." 

Monsieur  so  far  partook  of  it  on  descending — after 
he  had  made  a  rapid  toilet,  cleaned  his  sword  by  passing 
the  folds  of  his  cloak  over  it,  and  (good  soldier  as  he 
was !)  having  said  a  prayer  at  his  bedside  ere  leaving  the 
room — as  to  drink  a  cup  of  thick,  lukewarm  chocolate. 
But  beyond  this  he  would  wait  no  longer,  being  very 
anxious  to  regain  the  custody  of  his  child.  Also  he 
thought  that  the  "  Ours"  would  offer  a  more  satisfying 
meal  than  that  now  set  before  him,  which,  in  truth, 
was  nothing  but  the  selfsame  chocolate,  some  bread, 
and  a  half-finished  saucisson  which  did  not  look  par- 
ticularly appetizing. 

Therefore  he  tossed  on  the  table  a  silver  crown  to 
the  miserable-looking  old  woman  who  had  called  him, 
and  who  afterward  escorted  him  downstairs,  and,  fol- 
lowing her  across  the  more  than  ever  snow-covered 
courtyard,  emerged  on  to  the  great  plack. 

And  still,  as  he  observed,  the  snow  fell,  must  have 
been  falling  all  night,  since  it  lay  upon  this  open  space 
in  great  tussocks,  or  mounds,  while  across  the  place 
itself  no  footmark  was  to  be  seen.  It  was,  indeed,  as 
though  a  vast  white  sea  stretched  from  the  house  of 
Phelypeaux  over  to  where  the  "  Ours  "  stood. 

Beneath  a  dull  leaden  canopy  of  cloud  the  wintry 
day  was,  however,  coming ;  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
inn  he  could  see  the  smoke,  scarcely  more  dull  and 


"IN  THE  PATH  OF  OTHERS'  GREED."  29 

I 

leaden  than  that  canopy  itself,  rising ;  at  the  door  of 
the  inn  he  saw  the  mousquetaire  standing,  looking  up 
at  what  should  have  been  the  heavens. 

"  Is  all  well  ?  "  he  asked  as  he  drew  close  to  him  now. 
"  Have  you  seen  the  child  ?  " 

"  All  well,  monsieur,"  the  other  replied,  saluting  as 
he  spoke — "  all  well,  both  with  child  and  horse.  Yet, 
ma  foil  what  a  day  for  a  journey!  Must  monsieur, 
indeed,  continue  his  ?  " 

"  Ay ! "  replied  St.  Georges,  "  I  must.  My  orders 
are  to  pause  no  longer  than  necessary  on  the  route  to 
Paris,  to  report  myself  to  the  Minister  of  War,  the 
Marquis  de  Louvois."  Then  turning  to  the  mousque- 
taire, he  asked  :  "  What  are  your  orders?  Do  you  ride 
toward  Bar  to-day?" 

"  Since  monsieur  proceeds,  so  do  I.  Yet  I  doubt  if 
we  get  even  so  far  as  Bar.  del  I  will  the  snow  ever 
cease  to  fall  ?  " 

But  in  spite  of  the  snow,  in  half  an  hour  both  were 
ready  to  set  out.  The  little  child,  Dorine,  had  slept 
well,  the  patronne  said,  had  lain  snug  and  close  with 
two  of  her  own  all  through  the  night,  while  she  had 
seen  to  its  nourishment  and  had  herself  washed  and 
fed  it. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  for  a  true  woman,"  St.  Georges 
said,  "  Heaven  bless  you  ! " 

But  the  woman  would  hear  of  no  thanks ;  she  reiter- 
ated again  and  again  that  she  was  a  mother  herself  and 
had  a  mother's  heart  within  her ;  she  only  wished  mon- 
sieur would  leave  the  little  thing  with  her  until  he  came 
back ;  she  would  warrant  it  should  be  well  cared  for 
until  he  did. 

"  I  doubt  my  ever  coming  back  this  way,"  he  said, 
as  he  ate  his  breakfast — a  substantial  one,  far  different 


30  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

from  that  which  the  bishop's  servant  had  been  able  to 
set  before  him — and  she  ministered  to  his  wants,  "  un- 
less the  future  war  rolls  toward  Burgundy.  I  am  en 
route  for  Paris,  and  Heaven  only  knows  where  to  after- 
ward." 

"  Find  a  good  home  for  her,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  a 
home  where  she  may  at  least  be  safe  while  you  are  away 
campaigning.  Nay,"  she  continued,  "  if  I  might  make 
so  bold,  meaning  no  offence,  find  a  new  mother  for  her. 
It  would  be  a  sad  life  for  her  even  though  monsieur 
followed  a  stay-at-home  existence;  'twill  be  doubly 
hard  when  you  are  separated  from  her." 

But  St.  Georges  only  shook  his  head  and  said  mourn- 
fully there  was  no  other  wife  for  him ;  a  statement  from 
which  she  dissented  vehemently.  Then  she  asked : 

"  Does  monsieur  know  of  any  one  in  Paris  to  whom 
the  little  Dorine  might  be  confided  ?  If  not,"  she  con- 
tinued— "she  intended  no  liberty! — she  could  recom- 
mend one  with  whom  it  would  always  be  safe.  A  woman 
of  Dijon  like  herself,  married  and  settled  in  Paris ;  mar- 
ried, indeed,  to  a  cousin  of  her  late  husband,  who,  rest 
his  soul !  had  been  dead  eighteen  months.  This  woman's 
husband  was  a  mercer  in  a  large  way  of  business  in  the 
Rue  de  Timoleon,  lived  well,  and  had  children  of  his 
own ;  it  would  be  an  abri  for  the  child  if  monsieur  cared 
to  consider  it." 

"  Care  to  consider  it ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  "  why, 
it  is  the  very  thing  I  should  wish."  Then  he  paused  a 
moment,  reflecting  deeply  and  looking  round  the  kitch- 
en, as  though  to  see  that  they  were  alone,  which  they 
were  with  the  exception  of  the  mousquetaire,  who  sat 
by  the  great  fire  warming  himself. 

"  Hark  you,'  dame,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  a 
little,  though  not  from  any  fear  of  the  mousquetaire 


"IN  THE   PATH   OF  OTHERS'  GREED."  31 

hearing,  but  more  from  instinct  than  anything  else. 
"  You  have  done  me  one  great  kindness  in  being  so 
tender  to  my  poor  little  motherless  babe.  Will  you  an- 
swer me,  therefore,  a  question?  Will — will — suppose,  I 
would  say,  that  I  wished  the  whereabouts  of  this,  my 
child,  unknown  to  any  one — would  she  be  safe  in  the 
house  of  this  mercer  you  speak  of?  Also — if  you — 
should  be  asked  by  any  one — high  or  low,  here  in  Dijon 
— if,  par  hasard,  you  know,  or  could  guess,  had  indeed 
the  faintest  suspicion,  where  that  little  child  might  be — 
would  you  hold  your  peace  ?  Would  you  let  this  be  a 
secret  locked  only  in  your  own  honest  heart?  " 

"  Would  I  ?  Ay,  monsieur,  I  would !  Your  child 
has  slept  with  my  little  fillettes  ;  when  I  went  to  arouse 
them  ere  dawn  they  all  lay  cheek  to  cheek,  and  with 
their  arms  entwined.  She  is  as  one  of  mine,  therefore ; 
she  shall  be  as  sacred.  Je  lejure." 

"  Give  me  your  friend's  name  and  address,"  St. 
Georges  made  answer.  "  What  you  have  said  is  enough. 
I  trust  you  as  I  should  have  trusted  her  dead  mother." 
And  he  took  his  tablets  from  his  pouch  as  he  spoke. 

"  Write,"  said  the  woman,  "  the  name  of  Le  Sieur 
Blecy,  5  Rue  de  Timoleon.  That  is  sufficient.  His 
wife  Susanne  will  arrange  with  you  for  the  safety  of  the 
little  one  when  she  knows  that  I  have  sent  you." 

"  But,"  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  "  can  you  give  me  no 
line,  no  word,  to  her  or  him  ?  Surely  she  will  not  accept 
me  on  my  own  assurances.  Besides,  'tis  much  to  ask. 
She  will  scarcely  receive  my  child  into  her  house,  into 
her  family,  without  some  proofs  from  you." 

"How,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  "can  I  send  such 
proof  ?  I  can  not  write — alas !  I  can  not  even  read." 
She  blushed  as  she  spoke — though  truly  she  need  not 
have  done  so,  since  in  all  Burgundy,  in  the  days  of 


32  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

Louis  le  Dieudonne,  not  one  in  a  hundred  could  do  more 
than  she — and  he  himself  reddened  at  having  so  put  her 
to  shame,  and  muttered  some  sort  of  excuse  under  his 
thick  mustache. 

"  Send  some  trifle  that  she  will  recognise — some  little 
thing  she  will  know  to  have  been  yours,"  exclaimed  the 
mousquetaire  from  his  seat  in  the  chimney-piece.  "  She 
will  know  that." 

"  Ha ! "  she  said,  recovering  instantly  from  her  con- 
fusion, "  and  so  I  will."  Then,  casting  her  eyes  round 
the  great  stone-floor  kitchen  and  seeing  nothing  therein 
that  she  could  send  to  her  friend,  she  ran  up  the  stairs 
and  came  back  bearing  in  her  hand  a  little  missal,  with 
her  name  written  in  it. 

"It  was  given  to  me  by  Susanne's  mother  on  my 
wedding  day,  she  saying  that,  though  I  could  not  follow 
the  service  with  it,  my  children  might  learn  to  do  so — 
as  they  shall ! — as  they  shall ! " 

St.  Georges  took  the  book — a  tiny  one — and  put  it 
in  his  pouch. also,  along  with  his  tablets;  then  he  said 
to  the  mousquetaire :  "  Friend,  if  you  have  still  a  mind 
to  departxlet  us  set  out.  Yet  I  would  not  take  you  from 
your  comfortable  nook  if  duty  does  not  make  it  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  you  to  go." 

"  I  will  go,"  the  other  said,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  All  is  ready ;  my  horse  has  rested  for  two  days ;  at 
least  we  can  get  some  distance  on  our  route.  Come, 
monsieur,  let  us  away." 

Therefore  St.  Georges  paid  the  reckoning  due,  not 
forgetting  among  other  things  to  give  the  woman's 
children — who  were  now  all  up  and  ready  for  their 
breakfast — some  little  sums  to  buy  things  with;  and 
so  he  bade  the  woman  farewell,  thanking  her  again 
and  again  for  her  goodness,  and  promising  that  he 


"IN  THE  PATH  OF  OTHERS'  GREED."  33 

should  certainly  seek  the  Sieur  de  Blecy  on  his  arrival 
in  Paris. 

"  Also,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  her  by  the  hand,  "  I 
shall  find  some  means  of  letting  you  know  of  her  wel- 
fare. Burgundy  is  far  from  Paris,  yet  there  is  always 
continuous  passing  to  and  fro  from  one  to  the  other — 
you  shall  hear  from  me." 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  "  and,  tenez !  De  Blecy  is 
himself  of  Burgundy ;  his  old  mother  lives  near  here — 
not  a  league  away — send  through  him.  He  corresponds 
often  with  her  and  others.  A  word  to  me  will  reach. 
Farewell,  monsieur ; — farewell,  mousquetaire.  Adieu  ! " 

Yet  the  last  word  was  not  said ;  for  while  the  soldier 
went  into  the  inn  yard  to  fetch  the  horses  and  St. 
Georges  brought  down  from  the  room  she  slept  in  his 
little  child — who  prattled  in  her  baby  way  to  him  while 
her  soft  blue  eyes  smiled  up  in  his — and  wrapped  it  in 
his  great  cloak  preparatory  to  mounting  the  block  be- 
fore the  inn  door,  she  asked  : 

"  Why,  why,  monsieur,  do  you  desire  that  no  one 
should  know  where  she  is  ?  Why  keep  her  existence  a 
secret  ?  Surely  there  are  none  who  would  harm  so  inno- 
cent a  little  thing  as  that  ?  " 

He  paused  a  moment,  looking  down  at  her  from  his 
great  height  as  though  meditating  deeply;  then  he 
said : 

"  I  will  trust  you  fully.  I  wish  her  whereabouts — not 
her  existence,  that  is  already  known — kept  secret  until 
the  time  comes  that  either  she  shall  be  in  safety  out  of 
France  or  I  can  be  ever  near  to  guard  and  watch  over 
her ;  for  her  life — after  mine — stands  in  the  path  of 
others'  greed — perhaps  of  others'  ambition.  My  life 
first,  then  hers.  I  know  it,  have  known  it  long ;  until 
a  day  or  so  ago  I  thought  none  other  knew  it " 


3-J.  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"And?"  she  asked,  glancing  up  at  him,  while  she 
stole  her  hand  into  the  folds  of  his  cloak  and  again 
softly  patted  the  child's  little  dimpled  cheek — 
"and ?" 

"  And,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  sure  now  that  against 
her  life,  or  at  least  her  liberty,  some  attempt  will  be 
made — as  it  will  against  mine.  That,"  he  said,  sinking 
his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  is  why  I  am  recalled  to  Paris. 
Farewell!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   GBAVEYAKD. 

BY  the  time  that  the  wintry  night  was  about  once 
more  to  close  in  upon  them  they  were  nearing  Aignay- 
le-Duc,  having  passed  through  the  village  of  Baigneux 
some  two  or  three  hours  previously. 

A  change  in  the  weather  had  set  in ;  the  snow  had 
ceased  to  fall  at  last;  right  in  their  faces  from  the 
north-northwest  there  blew  a  cold,  frosty  wind ;  from 
beneath  their  horses'  hoofs  there  came  a  crisp  sound, 
which  told  as  plainly  as  words  that  the  soft,  feathery 
snow  was  hardening,  while  the  ease  with  which  the 
animals  now  lifted  their  feet  showed  that  the  travelling 
was  becoming  easier  to  them  every  moment. 

"  Courage  !  courage  ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges ;  "  if 
we  proceed  thus  we  may  reach  Chatillon-sur-Seine  to- 
night. What  think  you,  Boussac  ?  " 

On  their  road  the  men,  as  was  natural  between  two 
comrades  of  the  sword,  had  become  intimate,  St.  Georges 
telling  the  mousquetaire  some  of  that  history  of  his  life 
which  will  be  unfolded  as  these  pages  proceed,  while  the 


THE  GRAVEYARD.  35 

other  had  in  a  few  words  given  him  his  own.  His  name 
was  Boussac — Armand  Boussac — the  latter  drawn  from 
a  little  village  or  town  in  Lower  Berri,  wherein  his 
father  was  a  petit  seigneur. 

"  A  poor  place,  monsieur,"  he  said, "  a  rock — fortified, 
however,  strongly — and  with  a  castle  almost  inaccessible 
except  to  the  crows  and  hawks.  A  place  in  which  a 
man  who  would  see  the  world  can  yet  scarce  find  the 
way  to  study  his  fellow-creatures.  Ma  foi,  there  are 
not  many  there !  A  priest  or  two — those  always ! — some 
farmers  whose  fields  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  some 
old  crones  who,  no  longer  able  to  earn  anything  in  those 
fields,  are  kept  until  they  die  by  those  who  can.  And 
on  the  rock  a  few  soldiers  drawn  from  the  regiment  of 
Berri — men  who  eat  their  hearts  out  in  despair  when 
sent  to  garrison  it." 

"  A  cheerful  spot,  in  truth  ! "  said  St.  Georges,  with 
a  smile ;  "  no  wonder  you  left  the  rock  and  sought  the 
mousquetaires.  And  I  see  by  your  horse  that  you  are 
of  the  black  regiment.*  How  did  you  find  your  way 
to  it  ?  " 

"  Easily.  I  descended  once  to  Clermont,  having  bade 
farewell  to  my  father  and  intending  to  join  the  Regi- 
ment de  Berri,  when,  lo  !  as  I  entered  the  town,  I  saw 
our  grand  seigneur  of  Creuse  in  talk  with  an  officer  of 
the  Mousquetaires  Noirs.  Then  as  I  saluted  him  he 
called  out  to  me :  '  Boussac !  Boussac !  what  have  you 
crossed  the  mountains  for  and  come  to  Clermont  ? ' 
'  Pardie !  '  I  replied,  '  monsieur,  to  seek  my  fortune  as 
a  soldier.  I  hear  there  are  some  of  the  Regiment  of 
Berri  here.  And  the  arriere-lan  is  out,  the  summons 

*  "  Les  mousquetaires  tiraient  leur  noms  de  la  couleur  de  leur 
chevaux." — St.  Simon. 


36  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

made.'  '  And  so  it  is,'  replied  the  seigneur, '  only  the 
Regiment  of  Berri  is  complete,  has  all  its  complement. 
Now,  here  is  the  colonel  of  the  mousquetaires ;  if  he 
would  take  you,  why,  your  fortune's  made.  Ask  him, 
Boussac.  Ask  him.'  So,  monsieur,  I  asked  him,  tell- 
ing him  I  could  ride  any  horse ;  would  do  so  if  he 
brought  one;  knew  the  escrime — ma  foil  many  a  time 
had  I  fenced  in  the  old  castle  with  those  of  the  regi- 
ment; was  strong  and  healthy,  and,  voila!  it  was  done. 
Even  the  Mousquetaires — the  king's  own  guard,  the 
men  of  the  Maison  du  Roi  were  recruiting — it  needed 
only  that  one  should  be  of  gentle  blood,  as  the  Boussacs 
are.  So,  monsieur,  I  am  mousquetaire ;  have  fought 
when  they  fight;  we,  of  Ours,  were  at  Mulhausen, 
Turckheim,  and  Salzbach " 

"  Did  you  see  Turenne  killed  ?  "  asked  St.  Georges, 
turning  on  his  horse  to  look  at  his  comrade. 

"  Nay,  not  killed,  but  just  before  the  battle.  Ah  ! 
he  was  a  soldier !  "  Then  he  went  on  with  his  recollec- 
tions, finishing  up  by  saying :  "  But,  alas !  since  then  the 
peace  has  come,  and  we  have  naught  to  do  but  to  dance 
about  the  galleries  of  Versailles  and  be  in  attendance 
on  the  king  and  his  court.  That,"  he  said,  patting  his 
horse's  coal-black  neck,  "  is  no  work  for  a  soldier." 

"  It  will  change  ere  long,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  if  all 
accounts  be  true.  Louis  is  threatened  from  all  sides  by 
the  Dutchman,  William,  above  all.  It  will  come." 

"  Let  us  hope  so,  monsieur.    Peace  is  no  good  to  us." 

"  No !  peace  is  no  good  to  us.  My  only  hope  is, 
England  may  not  be  drawn  into  the  game." 

"  And  wherefore,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  am  half  English — my  mother  was  of  that  coun- 
try. To  draw  a  sword  against  the  land  that  gave  her 
birth  would  be  no  pleasure  to  me." 


THE  GRAVEYARD.  37 

"  Yet,  on  the  other — and  the  greater — side,  mon- 
sieur is  French.  How  should  you  decide,  therefore,  if 
war  comes  ?  " 

St.  Georges  rode  on  silently  for  a  little  while  ere  he 
answered  this  question,  and  the  mousquetaire  could  see 
that  he  was  pondering  deeply.  Then  he  seemed  to 
shake  himself  clear  of  his  doubts,  and  said : 

"  My  allegiance  is  to  France.  I  have  sworn  fidelity 
to  the  king.  To  him  consequently  I  belong.  If,  there- 
fore," he  continued,  "  my  fidelity  to  him  brings  no  harm 
to  one  whom  I  love  best  of  all  in  the  world  " — and 
Boussac  saw  his  arm  enfold  more  closely  the  little  child 
he  carried — "  I  draw  my  sword  for  him." 

"  Can  your  fidelity  do  that — bring  harm  to  her  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  It  might,"  replied  the  other,  "  it  might.  In  serv- 
ing 'Louis,  in  serving  France,  it  Vnay  be  that  I  put  her 
in  deadly  peril.  But  as  yet,  Boussac,  I  can  tell  you  no 
more." 

That  Boussac  was  bewildered  by  this  enigmatical 
remark  he  could  plainly  see.  The  soldier  had  wrinkled 
his  brow  and  stared  at  him  as  he  made  it.  Now  he 
rode  quietly  by  his  side,  saying  no  further  word,  yet 
evidently  turning  it  over  in  his  own  mind.  And  so,  as 
they  progressed,  the  night  came  nearly  upon  them,  and 
had  the  weather  not  now  changed  altogether  and  be- 
come fine  and  clear,  there  would  have  been  no  day- 
light left. 

Suddenly,  however,  as  they  rode  thus  silently  but 
at  a  good  paqe — for  the  frosted  snow  on  the  path  or 
road  shone  out  clear  and  distinct  now  to  their  and 
their  horses'  eyes  in  spite  of  the  oncoming  night — St. 
Georges  became  sure  of  what  at  first  he  had  only 
imagined — namely,  that  Boussac  suspected  something, 


38  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

was  watching  for  something — perhaps  an  ambush  or  an 
attack. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  as  the  mous- 
quetaire  tightened  his  hand  upon  the  rein  of  his  horse 
and,  bending  forward  over  its  jet-black  mane,  peered 
into  the  bushes  of  the  side  on  which  he  rode ;  and  also 
he  noticed  that  his  comrade  put  his  hand  to  his  long 
sword  and,  drawing  it  an  inch  or  two  from  its  scabbard 
once  or  twice,  loosened  it.  "  What  is  it,  Boussac  ?  " 
But  as  he  spoke  he,  too,  made  his  weapon  ready  in  the 
same  way. 

"Take  no  notice,"  muttered  the  mousquetaire,  "  ride 
straight  ahead,  look  neither  to  left  nor  right.  Yet — 
listen.  All  day  from  the  time  we  were  a  league  outside 
of  Dijon — ma  foil"  in  a  loud  tone  that  might  have 
been  heard  fifty  yards  off,  "a  fine  night,  a  pleasant 
night  for  the  season !  " — then  lowering  it  again,  "  a  man 
has  tracked  us,  a  man  armed  and  masked,  or  masked 
whenever  we  drew  near  him — si,  si,  monsieur  "  ;  again 
in  the  loud  voice  assumed  for  the  purpose,  "  the  vin  du 
pays,  especially  of  Chantillon,  is  excellent ;  a  cup  will 
cheer  us  to-night." 

"  Doubtless,"  replied  St.  Georges,  in  a  similar  voice ; 
then  sinking  it,  he  asked  beneath  his  teeth,  "  Why  not 
warn  me  before  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  red  wine,  monsieur,  above  all,"  replied  Bous- 
sac, loudly.  "  There  is  little  white  grows  here."  Again 
lowering  his  tone :  "  I  feared  to  distress,  to  alarm  you. 
You  had  the  child.  Now  I  am  forced  to  do  so.  He  has 
been  joined  by  five  others  at  different  points  since  we 
passed  Flavigny.  All  armed  and  all  masked.  Yes," 
in  the  loud  voice,  "  and  with  a  soupe  a  Toignon,  as  mon- 
sieur says.  They  are  around  us,"  sinking  it  again.  "  I 
judge  they  mean  attack.  Well,  we  know  we  are  soldiers : 


THE   GRAVEYARD.  39 

they  should  be  brigands,  larrons  !  Shall  we  encounter 
them,  give  them  a  chance  to  show  who  and  what  they 
are?" 

"  Ay,"  said  St.  Georges.  "  Observe,  here  is  a  small 
church  and  graveyard ;  wheel  in  and  let  us  await  them. 
I  see  them  now,  even  in  the  dusk." 

Swiftly,  as  on  parade,  the  order  was  given,  and 
as  swiftly  executed.  The  black  horse  wheeled  by  the 
side  of  the  chestnut  of  the  chevau-Uger  into  the  open 
graveyard — the  gate  of  the  place  hung  on  one  hinge 
down  toward  the  road  from  which  the  church  rose 
somewhat  —  and  then  St.  Georges  in  a  loud  voice 
said: 

"  Halt  here,  comrade.  Our  horses  are  a  little  blown. 
We  will  breathe  them  somewhat." 

It  was  a  wretched,  uncared-for  spot  into  which  they 
had  ridden,  the  church  being  a  little,  low-built  edifice 
of  evidently  great  antiquity,  and  doubtless  utilized  for 
service  by  the  out-dwellers  of  Aignay-le-Duc,  which  lay 
half  a  league  further  off,  and  some  sparse  lights  of 
which  might  be  now  seen  twinkling  in  the  clear,  frosty 
air  beneath  a  young  moon  that  rose  to  the  right  of  the 
village.  In  the  graveyard  itself  there  was  the  usual 
heterogeneous  accumulation  of  tombstones  and  memo- 
rials of  the  dead ;  here  and  there  some  dark-slate  head- 
stones ;  in  other  places  wooden  crosses  with  imitation 
flowers  hanging  on  their  crossbars,  covered  with  frozen 
snow ;  in  others,  huge  mounds  alone,  to  mark  the  spots 
where  the  dead  lay. 

"  Not  bad,"  said  the  mousquetaire,  as  he  glanced  his 
eye  round  the  melancholy  spot,  "  for  an  encounter,  if 
they  mean  one. — Steady,  mon  brave,"  to  his  horse, 
"  steady ! — Ah  !  here  comes  one.  Well,  we  have  the 
point  o'  vantage.  We  are  in  the  churchyard ;  they  have 


40  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

to  come  up  the  rise  to  attack  us.  Feste  !  what  can  they 
want  with  two  soldiers  ?  " 

St.  Georges  arranged  his  child  under  his  arm  more 
carefully,  gathered  his  reins  into  the  hand  of  that  arm, 
and  then,  with  the  other,  drew  his  long  sword — it  glit- 
tered in  the  rays  of  the  young  moon  like  a  streak  of 
phosphorus ! — and  was  followed  in  this  action  by  Bous- 
sac.  After  which  he  whispered :  "  See !  All  six  are 
coming.  Which  is  the  one  who,  you  say,  followed  us 
from  Flavigny  ?  " 

"  He  who  hangs  behind  all  the  others.  The  biggest 
of  all." 

As  the  mousquetaire  answered,  the  men  of  whom  he 
had  spoken,  and  who  had  gradually  come  from  behind 
the  hedges  and  trees  that  grew  all  along  the  way,  formed 
up  together,  five  of  them  being  in  a  body  behind  one 
who  was  evidently  their  leader  and  who  rode  a  little 
ahead.  And  all  were,  as  Boussac  had  said,  masked, 
while  one  or  two  had  breastpieces  over  their  jerkins 
and  some  large  gorgets.  As  for  the  leader  himself,  he 
wore  what,  even  for  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
was  almost  now  obsolete,  a  burganet  with  the  visor  down. 

As  he  advanced  until  his  horse's  head  was  where  the 
graveyard  gate  would  have  been,  had  it  hung  properly 
on  its  hinges  and  been  closed,  he  spoke,  saying — while 
his  voice  sounded  hollow  by  reason  of  the  band  of  steel 
which  muffled  it :  "  Who  are  you  who  ride  on  the  king's 
highroad  to-night?  Soldiers,  I  see,  by  your  accoutre- 
ments, and  one  a  mousquetaire.  Answer  and  explain 
why  neither  are  with  your  regiments." 

"  First,"  replied  St.  Georges,  "  answer  you,  yourself. 
By  what  right  do  you  demand  so  much  of  a  chevau-leyer, 
whose  cockade  is  his  passport,  and  of  a  mousquetaire 
who  is  of  the  king's  own  house  ?  " 


THE   GRAVEYARD.  41 

"  I  represent  the  governor  of  the  territory  of  Bur- 
gundy, and  have  the  right  to  make  the  demand." 

"  That  we  will  concede  when  you  give  us  proof  of  it. 
Meanwhile,  take  my  assurance  as  an  officer  that  we  ride 
by  the  king's  orders.  That  order  I  carry  in  my  pocket 
for  myself ;  my  comrade  goes  to  join  the  Mousquetaires 
Noirs  at  Bar." 

"  Still  we  must  see  your  papers." 

"  As  you  shall,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  when  you  produce 
your  own.  Otherwise  we  intend  to  proceed  to  night  to 
that  village  ahead." 

"  You  do  ?    How  'if  we  prevent  you  ?  " 

"  Prevent ! "  echoed  St.  Georges,  with  a  contemptu- 
ous laugh.  "  Prevent !  Come,  sir,  come.  You  are  no 
representative  of  the  governor,  as  you  know  very  well. 
He  scarcely,  I  imagine,  sets  spies,  such  a.s  that  skulking 
fellow  behind  you,  to  track  the  king's  soldiers  from 
village  to  village,  from  daybreak  to  night."  Then  rais- 
ing his  voice  authoritatively,  he  said :  "  Stand  out  of 
our  way ! — Boussac,  avancez  !  "  and  he  urged  his  horse 
forward  to  the  leader  so  that  the  animals'  heads  touched. 

"  So  be  it,"  exclaimed  the  other,  and,  turning  his 
head  to  those  behind,  the  two  comrades  heard  him  say  : 
"  The  bait  takes.  Fall  on." 

In  an  instant  the  melee  had  begun — in  another  St. 
Georges  knew  what  he  had  from  the  first  suspected.  It 
was  his  life  and  the  life  of  his  child  that  was  aimed  at ! 

All  hurled  their  horses  against  him — except  the 
sixth  man,  he  who  had  tracked  them  all  day,  and  who 
now,  masked  and  with  his  sword  drawn,  sat  his  horse 
outside  of  the  fray,  looking  on  at  what  was  being  done 
by  the  others. 

The  leader  dealt  blow  after  blow  at  St.  Georges  with- 
out effect,  owing  to  the  latter's  skilful  swordsmanship ; 
4 


42  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  remaining  four  directed  theirs  at  the  arm  which 
bore  and  shielded  the  child,  and  which,  had  Armand 
Boussac  not  been  by,  would  have  been  pierced  through 
and  through.  But  the  adroit  swordsman  perceived  the 
intention  of  these  murderers — the  would-be  murderers 
of  a  little  child ! — and  foiled  them  again  and  again, 
beating  off  their  weapons  with  his  own,  and  at  the  same 
time  losing  no  opportunity  of  attacking  them.  And  so 
far  was  he  successful  that  already  he  had  put  two  hors 
de  combat.  One  was  by  now  off  his  horse,  lying  across 
a  snow-covered  grave  which  was  rapidly  becoming  red 
from  the  blood  that  poured  from  his  lungs,  through 
which  the  mousquetaire's  sword  had  passed  two  minutes 
before;  the  other,  lying  forward  on  his  horse's  neck, 
was  urging  the  animal  out  of  the  press  of  the  fight. 

And  now  the  odds  were  but  three  to  two — for  still 
the  man  who  took  no  part  in  the  attack  sat  on  his  ani- 
mal's back,  and,  indeed,  from  the  glances  he  cast  round 
him  appeared  to  be  meditating  flight. 

Yet  withal  they  were  unequal  odds,  especially  since 
their  three  antagonists  were  skilful  swordsmen,  the 
leader  in  particular  wielding  his  weapon  with  remark- 
able craft.  Moreover,  by  his  possession  of  the  burganet 
he  wore,  the  odds  were  still  greater  in  his  favour — it  had 
saved  his  life  more  than  once  already  from  the  blows 
dealt  at  his  head  by  St.  Georges. 

Yet  now  those  odds  were  soon  further  diminished — 
the  chances  became  at  last  equal.  As  one  of  the  two 
followers  thrust  at  the  arm  of  the  chevau-Uger,  mean- 
ing to  strike  the  burden  he  carried  beneath,  Boussac 
with  a  quick  parry  turned  his  weapon  off,  and  thus  glid- 
ing it  along  his  own  blade,  brought  its  hilt  with  a  clash 
against  his  own.  Then  in  a  moment  the  mousquetaire 
had  seized  the  sword  arm  of  his  antagonist,  and,  holding 


THE  GRAVEYARD.  4.3 

it  a  moment,  struck  through  the  man's  body  with  his 
own  weapon,  which  he  shortened  in  his  grasp.  A  second 
later  the  fellow  was  writhing  on  the  ground  beneath  the 
feet  of  the  various  steeds,  and  helping  to  crimson  the 
snow,  as  the  others  had  done  who  had  fallen  previously. 

"  Pasquedieu  !  "  the  comrades  heard  the  leader  mutter 
through  the  bars  of  his  helmet,  "  we  fail."  Then,  as  he 
and  St.  Georges  wheeled  around  on  their  horses,  while 
still  their  weapons  clashed  and  writhed  together,  he 
shouted  to  the  man  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  af- 
fray, "  Hound  !  cur  !  come  and  render  assistance ! " 

"  Ay,"  exclaimed  Boussac, "  come  and  render  him  as- 
sistance. The  chances  are  even  without  you.  We  shall 
defeat  him  ere  long  if  you  assist  not !  "  and  with  a  mock- 
ing laugh  he  again  attacked  his  own  particular  adversary, 
taking  heed  at  the  same  time  to  insure  that  no  thrust 
nor  blow  of  his  should  strike  the  precious  burden  under 
St.  Georges's  arm. 

In  truth,  the  fellow  skulking  on  the  horse  seemed  to 
think  that  matters  tended  in  the  direction  indicated, 
for,  instead  of  responding  to  the  leader's  orders,  he  shook 
up  the  reins  of  his  own  horse,  and  in  a  moment  had 
vanished  into  the  night,  leaving  the  four  combatants 
equally  matched — except  that  on  the  side  of  St.  Georges 
and  Boussac  there  was  the  child  to  be  protected. 

And  now  those  four  set  grimly  to  work — though  had 
there  been  an  onlooker  of  the  fray  in  that  deserted 
churchyard  he  would  have  said  that  the  defenders,  and 
not  the  attackers,  had  most  stomach  for  the  fight !  St. 
Georges,  his  blood  at  boiling  point  at  the  assaults  made 
on  his  little  child — now  screaming  lustily  at  the  noise 
and  clash  of  steel,  and  perhaps  at  the  unwonted  tossing 
about  to  which  it  had  been  subjected — fought  determi- 
nately,  his  teeth  clinched,  his  eyes  gleaming  fire.  He  had 


44  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

sworn  to  kill  this  assassin,  who  had  led  his  band  against 
him.  He  meant  to  kill  him ! 

Yet  it  was  hard  to  do — the  other  was  himself  a 
swordsman  of  skill.  But,  skilful  as  he  was,  one  good 
thing  had  now  happened :  neither  he  nor  his  follower 
could  any  more  threaten  harm  to  the  little  Dorine ! 
They  had  sufficient  to  do  to  protect  themselves  from  the 
two  soldiers — to  protect  themselves  from  the  blows  and 
thrusts  that  came  at  them ;  so  that,  at  last,  they  were 
forced  to  retreat  down  the  slope  to  the  road — driven 
back  by  the  irresistible  fury  of  St.  Georges  and  his  fol- 
lower. And,  eventually,  seeing  that  he  had  got  the 
•worst  of  it,  the  leader,  after  one  ineffectual  thrust  at  his 
antagonist,  wheeled  his  horse  round  and,  with  a  cry  to 
the  other  to  follow  him,  dashed  off  down  the  road  in  the 
same  direction  that  the  man  who  had  skulked  all 
through  the  fight  had  taken. 

Yet  such  an  order  was  more  easily  given  than  obeyed, 
since,  at  the  moment  he  uttered  it,  Boussac  had  by  a 
clever  parry  sent  the  other's  sword  flying  out  of  his 
hand,  while,  an  instant  afterward,  he  dealt  him  such  a 
buffet  with  his  own  gantleted  hand  as  knocked  him 
off  his  horse  on  to  the  top  of  those  lying  on  the  ground 
beneath. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   LITTLE   LIGHT. 

THE  first  thought  of  both  the  victors  was  to  see  to 
the  child,  who,  while  still  screaming  piteously,  was  un- 
harmed— though  a  deep  cut  in  St.  Georges's  sleeve  and, 
as  he  afterward  found,  a  slight  sword  thrust  in  the  fore- 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT.  45 

arm,  showed  how  great  had  been  her  peril  and  how  near 
her  little  body  to  being  pierced  by  one  of  the  ruffians' 
swords.  Still  she  was  safe,  untouched,  and  her  father 
muttered  a  hasty  thanksgiving  to  God,as  he  found  such 
was  the  case. 

Then  they  addressed  themselves  to  Boussac's  van- 
quished antagonist — the  last  living  and  remaining  rem- 
nant of  their  foes.  For  of  those  who  had  been  overcome 
earlier  in  the  fray,  all  three  were  dead,  lying  stark  and 
stiff  on  the  frozen  ground  across  the  graves  where  they 
had  fallen.  As  for  him,  the  living  one,  he  presented  as 
ghastly  a  spectacle  as  they  who  were  gone  to  their  doom 
— sitting  up  as  he  now  did,  and  endeavouring  to  stanch 
the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  lips  and  nose  in  conse- 
quence of  the  blow  dealt  him  by  Boussac. 

"  Stand  up,"  said  St.  Georges,  as  he  towered  over 
him,  his  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  while  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  such  as  it  was,  he  was  able  to  see  the  fellow's 
face.  "  Stand  up  and  answer  my  questions." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me?"  asked  the 
man,  staggering  to  his  feet  at  the  other's  command. 

"  Hang  you  to  the  nearest  tree,"  replied  St.  Georges, 
"  in  all  likelihood.  Especially  if  you  trifle  with  me.  I 
will  have  the  truth  from  you  somehow.  Now,  spadas- 
sin,  the  meaning  of  this  attack.  Quick  ! " 

"  Monsieur,  I  know  no  more  than  you — monsieur, 
j " 

"  No  lies.  Answer ! "  and  he  lifted  his  arm  and 
drew  his  sword  back  as  though  about  to  plunge  it  into 
the  other's  throat.  "  Answer,  I  say !  Who  are  you  all, 
you  and  this  carrion  here  ?  "  and  he  spurned  the  dead 
with  his  foot.  "  Above  all,  who  is  the  fellow  in  the 
antique  morion,  the  man  who  takes  double  precautions 
to  guard  his  head  and,  ma  foil  to  hide  his  features !" 


46  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Again,  I  say  monsieur,  I  know  not.  Nay,  nay,"  he 
cried,  seeing  once  more  the  threatening  aspect  of  the 
other,  and  again  the  sword  drawn  back.  "  Nay,  I  swear 
it  is  the  truth.  Let  me  tell  my  tale." 

"  Tell  it  and  be  brief." 

"Monsieur,"  the  man,  therefore,  began,  as  St. 
Georges  stood  in  front  of  him  and  Boussac  never  took 
his  eyes  off  his  face,  while  at  the  same  time  he  held  the 
horses'  reins,  "there  came  into  our  village — not  this 
which  you  see  down  there,  but  Keccy,  two  leagues  off— 
yesterday  the  man  you  call  the  leader,  he  who  wears 
the  burganet.  And  accompanied  by  one  other — this," 
and  he  looked  down  at  the  dead  men  lying  across  the 
graves  and  touched  one  with  his  toe,  thereby  to  indicate 
him.  "  Then,"  the  fellow  went  on,  "  when  he  had 
drunk  a  cup  and  made  a  meal  he  spake  to  us  sitting 
round  the  fire ;  to  him,  Gaspard,"  pointing  to  a  dead 
man,  "  and  to  him,  Arnaud,"  pointing  to  another,  "  and 
said  that  he  and  his  follower  were  in  search  of  a  brigand 
riding  to  Paris  from  the  Cote  d'Or  who  had  stolen  a 
child  from  its  lawful  parents — a  child,  he  said,  whom 
the  brigand  desired  to  make  away  with,  since  it  stood 
between  him  and  great  wealth." 

"He  said  that?" 

"  Ay,  monsieur,  and  more.  That  he  must  save  the 
child  at  all  costs,  wrench  it  away  from  the  man  who 
had  it." 

"  Now,"  exclaimed  St.  Georges  passionately, "  I  know 
you  lie !  Neither  he  nor  you  endeavoured  to  save  it,  to 
wrench  it  away  from  me.  On  the  contrary,  all  aimed 
at  that  harmless  child's  life,  endeavoured  to  stab  it 
through  my  cloak,  under  my  arm.  Villain !  you  shall 
die,"  and  this  time  he  made  as  though  he  would  indeed 
slay  the  fellow. 


A   LITTLE  LIGHT.  4.7 

"  No !  no  !  monsieur ! "  the  man  howled,  overcome 
with  fear  of  instant  death — death  that  seemed  so  near 
now — "  hear  my  story  out ;  you  will  see  I  do  not  lie.  It 
was  not  until  later — when  he  had  bought  us — that  we 
knew  what  he  truly  wanted.  Let  me  proceed,  monsieur." 

"  Go  on ! "  said  St.  Georges,  again  dropping  the 
point  of  his  weapon. 

"  Also,  he  said,"  the  man  continued, "  that  he  needed 
more  men  to  make  certain  of  catching  him  and  hauling 
him  to  justice  and  releasing  the  child.  Those  were  his 
very  words.  And  he  asked  us,  Gaspard,  Arnaud,  and 
myself,  if  we  would  take  service  with  him.  We  looked 
strong  and  lusty,  he  thought — soldiers,  perhaps.  If  we 
would  take  part  in  the  undertaking  there  were  fifty 
gold  pistoles  for  us  to  divide.  Was  it  worth  our  while  ? 
We  said,  Yes,  it  was  worth  our  while ;  we  were  disbanded 
soldiers  of  the  Verdelin  Regiment — our  time  expired, 
and  we  looking  for  a  fresh  recruiting.  If  what  he  said 
was  true — that  we  were  wanted  to  arrest  a  kidnapper — 
we  would  join.  But  for  no  other  purpose.  Then  he 
swore  at  us,  told  us  we  were  canaille,  that  he  explained 
not  his  movements  nor  made  any  oath  to  the  truth  of 
his  statements ;  there  was  a  bag  of  pistoles,  and  if  we 
had  horses  and  weapons — but  not  without — he  would 
employ  us.  So  we  took  service.  Arnaud  had  two 
horses  at  his  mother's  farm ;  he  lent  one  to  Gaspard,  I 
borrowed  mine  for  two  ecus.  Voila  tout." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  St.  Georges  quietly. 

"  All  of  importance.  The  pact  was  made,  and  then 
he  said  we  must,  this  morning,  move  on  toward  Aignay- 
le-Duc.  Le  Brigand — as  he  called  monsieur — would 
pass  that  way  to-night,  he  thought.  But,  later  on,  he 
would  know.  A  messenger  from  Dijon  would  arrive  to 
tell  him." 


48  IN  THE  DAY  OF   ADVERSITY. 

"  A  messenger  from  Dijon  ! "  Both  St.  Georges  and 
Boussac  started  at  this  and  looked  at  each  other  in  the 
uncertain  light.  A  messenger  from  Dijon  !  Who  could 
it  be  ?  Who  was  there  who  knew  of  St.  Georges's  where- 
abouts ?  Yet,  as  the  man  spoke,  they  guessed  that  the 
fellow  whom  Boussac  had  noticed,  who  had  tracked  them 
all  day,  mostly  masked,  must  have  been  that  messenger. 

"  He  came  at  last,"  the  narrator  continued, "  an  hour 
or  so  before  monsieur  and  his  companion.  And  he  told 
us  that  there  were  two,  so  that  we  had  to  do  more  than 
we  had  undertaken.  Yet,  we  thought  not  much  of  that. 
We  were  five  to  two,  for  he,  the  messenger,  averred  he 
would  take  no  part  in  the  fight  unless  absolutely  neces- 
sary. He  was  not  well,  he  said ;  he  had  ridden  all  day — 
fighting  was  not  his  business ;  he  was  a  messenger,  not  a 
soldier.  So  our  employer  cursed  him  for  a  poltroon,  but 
told  him  he  might  stand  out  of  the  attack.  We  were 
five  without  him — that  was  enough." 

"  Go  on,"  said  St.  Georges  once  more,  seeing  that 
again  the  man  paused  as  though  his  narrative  had  con- 
cluded. "  Go  on.  There  is  more  to  be  told." 

"  But  little,  monsieur.  Only  this.  As  you  wheeled 
into  this  graveyard  he  gave  us  one  final  order.  '  They 
will  resist,'  he  said,  '  therefore  spare  not.  Dead  or  alive 
they  must  be  taken.  Child  and  man.  Dead  or  alive. 
You  understand  ! ' ' 

"  And  it  was  for  that  reason  that  all  endeavoured 
to  plunge  their  swords  into  this  innocent  child !  My 
God  ! "  And  St.  Georges  paused  a  moment  ere  he  went 
on ;  then  he  said  to  Boussac :  "  What  shall  we  do  to 
him  ?  He  merits  death." 

"  Ma  foil  he  does,"  replied  the  mousquetaire,  while 
he  grimly  added,  "  For  my  part,  I  am  willing  to  execute 
it  on  him  now." 


A   LITTLE  LIGHT.  49 

At  this  sinister  remark,  uttered  with  the  callousness 
which  a  brave  soldier  would  naturally  feel  for  the  exist- 
ence of  such  a  creature,  the  other  flung  himself  on  his 
feet  before  them  and  began  to  howl  so  for  mercy  that 
St.  Georges,  more  for  fear  that  he  would  call  the  atten- 
tion of  some  who  might  be  about  the  village  than  aught 
else,  bade  him  cease  the  noise  he  was  making  or  he 
would  indeed  take  effectual  steps  to  stop  it.  Then, 
when  this  remark  had  produced  the  desired  effect, 
namely,  a  cessation  of  the  man's  shouts,  though  he 
whimpered  and  whined  like  a  beaten  hound,  the  other 
continued : 

"  In  spite  of  your  villainy,  of  your  assaults  on  one  so 
harmless  as  the  child  I  carry,  you  are  too  vile  for  us  to 
stain  our  weapons  with  your  blood.  Yet,  what  to  do 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Throw  him  in  there,"  said  Boussac  with  sang  froid. 
"  That  will  keep  him  quiet  for  some  time  at  least,"  and 
he  pointed  to  an  open  grave  which  yawned  very  near 
where  they  stood,  and  into  whose  black  mouth  he  had 
been  peering  for  some  time.  He  added  also :  "  It  will  be 
his  only  chance  of  ever  occupying  one.  Such  as  he  end 
by  hanging  on  roadside  gibbets  or  rotting  on  the  wheel 
they  have  been  broken  upon — the  peaceful  grave  is  not 
for  them." 

St.  Georges  turned  his  eyes  to  the  spot  indicated,  ex- 
claiming that  it  would  do  very  well.  It  was  no  newly 
made  grave,  he  saw,  prepared  for  one  who  had  recently 
departed,  but,  instead,  an  old  one  that  had  been  opened, 
perhaps  to  receive  some  fresh  body;  for  by  the  side 
of  it  there  lay  a  slab  that  had,  it  was  plain  to  see,  been 
pushed  aside  from  where  it  had  previously  rested,  as 
though  to  permit  of  it  being  so  opened. 

"  Ay,"  echoed  Boussac,  sardonically,  "  it  will  do  very 


50  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

well.  Add  when  he  is  in — as  we  will  soon  have  him — 
the  stone  shall  be  pushed  back  to  keep  him  safe.  Then 
he  may  holla  loud  enough  and  long :  no  one  will  hear 
him." 

His  hollas  began  again  at  once,  however,  for  at  the 
terrifying  prospect  of  being  thus  incarcerated  in  so 
awful  a  manner  he  flung  himself  once  more  on  his 
knees,  and  bellowed  out : 

"  Nay !  Nay !  In  pity,  I  beseech  you.  You  know 
not  what  you  do — what  terrors  you  condemn  me  to. 
A  plague,  a  horrible  one,  a  sweating  sickness,  passed 
over  this  province  a  year  back — it  took  many,  among 
others  him  who  laid  here.  He  was  of  Chantillon — a 
seigneur — and  is  now  removed  by  his  friends.  Mercy ! 
Mercy  !  Mercy  !  Condemn  me  not  to  this.  Think,  I 
beseech  you.  The  grave  is  infected,  impregnated  with 
contagion.  Mercy !  Mercy !  Mercy !" 

The  fellow  had  thrust  at  his  child's  life — St.  Georges 
remembered  it  even  as  he  spoke ! — yet,  being  a  brave 
soldier  himself,  he  could  not  condemn  the  ruffian  to  such 
horrors  as  these.  Revenge  he  would  have  taken  earlier, 
in  the  heat  of  the  fight;  would  have  killed  the  man 
with  his  own  hand,  even  as  he  would  have  killed  that 
other,  the  leader,  had  the  chance  arisen  ;  but — this  was 
beneath  him.  Therefore,  he  said : 

"Bind  him,  Boussac,  to  this  old  yew.  Bind  him 
with  his  horse's  reins  and  gag  him.  Then  he  must  take 
his  chance — the  night  grows  late.  We  must  away." 

It  was  done  almost  as  soon  as  ordered,  the  mousque- 
taire  detaching  the  coarse  reins  of  the  man's  horse — 
which  was  itself  wounded  and  seemed  incapable  of 
action — and  lashing  him  to  the  tree,  while  he  took  one  of 
his  stirrup  leathers  and  bade  him  open  his  mouth  to  be 
gagged. 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT.  51 

"  To-morrow,"  he  remarked  to  the  unhappy  wretch, 
"  at  matins  you  may  be  released.  Meanwhile,  heart  up  ! 
you  are  not  alone.  You  have  your  comrades  for  com- 
pany." And  he  glanced  down  at  the  others  lying  still  in 
death. 

"  Stay,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  ere  you  put  the  gag  in  his 
mouth  let  me  ask  him  one  question. — Who,"  turning  to 
the  shivering  creature  before  him,  "who  was  your 
leader  ?  Answer  me  that,  and  even  now  you  shall  go 
free.  Answer ! " 

For  a  moment  the  man  hesitated — doubtless  he  was 
wondering  if  he  could  not  invent  some  name  which 
might  pass  for  a  real  one,  and  so  give  him  his  freedom — 
then,  perhaps  because  his  inventive  powers  were  not 
great,  or — which  was  more  probable — his  captor  might 
have  some  means  of  knowing  that  he  was  lying,  he  an- 
swered : 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  never  saw  him  before." 

"  You  do  not  know,  or  will  not  tell — which?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  "Whence  came  he  to  your  village  ?  From  what 
quarter  ?  " 

"  The  north  road.  The  great  road  from  Paris.  He 
had  not  come  many  leagues ;  his  horse  was  fresh." 

"  So !  What  was  he  like  ?  He  did  not  wear  his 
burganet  all  the  time — when  he  ate,  for  instance." 

"  He  was  young,"  the  man  replied,  hoping,  it  may 
be,  that  by  his  ready  answers  he  would  earn  his  pardon 
even  yet,  "  passably  young.  Of  about  monsieur's  age. 
With  a  brown  beard  cropped  close  and  gray  eyes." 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  tell  ?  " 

"  It  is  all,  monsieur.     Ayez  pitie^  monsieur." 

"  Gag  him,"  said  St.  Georges  to  Boussac,  "  and  let 
us  go." 


52  IN*   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

So  they  left  the  fellow  gagged  and  bound,  and  rode 
on  once  more  upon  their  road,  passing  swiftly  through 
Aignay-le-Duc  without  stopping. 

"  For,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  badly  as  we  want  rest,  we 
must  not  halt  here.  To-morrow  those  dead  men  will 
be  found,  with,  perhaps,  another  added  to  their  num- 
ber if  the  frost  is  great  to-night,  as  it  seems  like  to  be. 
We  must  push  on  for  Chatillon  now,  even  though  we 
ride  all  night.  Pray  Heaven  our  horses  do  not  drop  on 
the  road ! " 

So  through  Aignay-le-Duc  they  went,  clattering  up 
the  one  wretched  street,  their  animals'  hoofs  waking 
peasants  from  their  early  slumbers,  and  the  jangling  of 
their  scabbards  and  steel  trappings  arousing  the  whole 
village.  Even  the  guet  de  nuit — who  because  it  was  his 
duty  to  be  awake  was  always  asleep — was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  the  oncoming  hoofs,  and,  rushing  to  his  cabin 
door,  cried  out,  "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

"  Chevau-Uger  en  service  du  roi,"  cried  St.  Georges ; 
and  "  Mousquetaire  de  la  maison  du  rot,"  answered 
Boussac ;  and  so,  five  minutes  later,  they  had  passed  the 
hamlet  and  were  once  more  on  their  road  north. 

"  Yet,"  said  St.  Georges  as,  stopping  to  breathe  their 
horses,  he  opened  the  cloak  and  gazed  on  his  sleeping 
child,  "  I  would  give  much  to  know  who  our  enemy  is — 
who  the  cruel  wretch  who  aimed  at  your  innocent  little 
life.  '  A  young  man  with  a  fair  beard  and  gray  eyes ! ' 
the  ruffian  said.  Who,  who  is  he  ?  " 

And,  bending  over,  he  brushed  her  lips  with  his 
great  mustache. 

"  My  darling,"  he  whispered,  "  I  pray  God  that  all 
attacks  on  you  may  be  thwarted  as  was  this  one  to- 
night; that  he  may  raise  up  for  you  always  so  stout 
and  true  a  protector  as  he  who  rides  by  my  side." 


A   REASON.  53 

"  Amen  ! "  muttered  Boussac,  who  among  his  good 
qualities  did  not  find  himself  overwhelmed  with  mod- 
esty. "  Amen !  Though,"  he  exclaimed  a  second  after, 
"  he  who  would  not  fight  for  such  an  innocent  as  that 
deserves  never  to  have  one  of  his  own." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   KEASON". 

MIDNIGHT  was  sounding  from  the  steeples  of  Cha- 
tillon  as  the  soldiers  rode  their  tired  beasts  across  the 
bridge  over  the  Seine  and  through  the  deserted  street 
that  led  up  to  the  small  guard-house,  where,  Boussac 
said,  would  be  found  the  Governor  of  the  Bailliage  with 
some  soldiers  of  the  Montagne  Regiment. 

As  they  had  come  along  they  had  naturally  talked 
much  on  the  attack  that  had  been  made  upon  them 
outside  Aignay-le-Duc,  and  St.  Georges  had  decided 
that,  as  Chatillon  was  the  most  important  town  on  this 
side  of  Troyes,  it  would  be  his  duty  here  to  give  notice 
to  any  one  in  authority  of  that  attack  having  taken 
place. 

"  For,"  said  he,  "  that  it  was  premeditated  who  can 
doubt?  The  leader  spoke  of  me  as  a  brigand  who  had 
stolen  a  child,  while  he  himself  was  the  brigand  who 
desired  to  steal  my  child.  Then,  see,  Boussac,  we  were 
followed — or  preceded — from  Dijon  by  that  man  who 
warned  him  we  were  coming — merciful  heavens !  who 
could  he  have  been  ? — so  that  it  shows  plainly  that  I  am 
a  marked  man.  Marked!  tracked!  known  all  along 
the  route." 


54:  INT  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  But  why  ?  Why  ?  "  interposed  Boussac.  "  Why  is 
your  life,  the  life  of  the  pauvrette,  aimed  at?  Across 
whose  path  do  you  and  she  stand  ?  " 

"That  I  can  but  guess  at,"  replied  the  other; 
"though  I  have  long  suspected  that  I  have  powerful 
enemies  to  whom  my  existence  was  hateful."  Then, 
since  their  tired  horses  were  now  walking  side  by  side 
across  a  wide  plain,  at  the  end  of  which  rose  Chatillon, 
he  leaned  over,  and,  putting  his  hand  on  the  mousque- 
taire's  saddle,  said  gravely  : 

"  Boussac,  you  have  shown  to-night  the  true  metal 
you  are  made  of.  Listen  to  me;  hark  to  a  secret; 
though  first  you  must  assure  me  you  will  never  divulge 
to  any  one  that  which  I  tell  you  until  I  give  you  leave. 
Will  you  promise  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  replied  Boussac.  "  I  will."  Whereon  he 
stretched  out  his  own  hand,  drawing  off  first  the  great 
riding  gantlet  he  wore,  and  said,  "  There's  my  hand. 
And  with  it  the  word  of  a  brother  soldier,  of  a  mous- 
quetaire." 

"So  be  it,"  taking  the  offered  hand  in  his  own. 
"  Listen.  I  believe  that  I  am  the  Duke  de  Vannes." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Boussac,  "you  the  Duke  de 
Vannes !  Mon  Dieu,  monsieur,  this  is  extraordinary. 
But  stay.  You  bewilder  me.  Your  name  is  St.  Georges 
— if  it  is  as  you  say,  it  should  be  De  la  Bresse.  I  knew 
him — your  father.  He  died  at  Salzbach  the  same  day  as 
Turenne  did.  And  you  believe — do  you  not  know  ?  Or 
— or  did — or  was " 

"  Stop  there,  Bonssac.  I  can  suppose  what  you  are 
going  to  say.  To  ask  if  my  mother  was — well,  no  mat- 
ter. But  be  sure  of  this :  if  I  am  what  I  think,  I  arn  his 
lawful  son.  His  heir,  and  myself  a  De  Vannes,  the  De 
Vannes." 


A   REASON.  55 

"  But '  what  you  think ! '  '  what  you  believe  yourself 
to  be  ! '  Do  you  not  know  ?  " 

"  No.  I  may  be  his  son,  I  may  in  truth  be  only  Mon- 
sieur St.  Georges.  Yet — yet — this  attack  on  me  and 
mine  points  to  the  presumption  that  I  am  what  I  be- 
lieve myself  to  be.  The  cavalry  soldier,  St.  Georges, 
and  his  helpless  babe  would  not  be  worth  waylaying, 
putting  out  of  existence  forever.  De  Vannes's  heir 
would  be." 

"  Only — again — you  do  not  know.  Does  not  a  man 
know  whose  son  he  is  ?  " 

Chatillon  still  lay  far  off  on  the  plain  through  which 
they  were  riding ;  the  flickering  flambeaux  on  its  gate 
and  walls  were  but  little  specks  of  light  at  present,  and 
St.  Georges  decided  that  he  would  confide  in  the  nious- 
quetaire  who  had  shown  himself  so  good  a  friend  that 
night.  Moreover,  Boussac  had  said  he  was  of  gentle 
blood ;  his  being  in  the  Mousquetaires  proved  it,  since 
none  were  admitted  who  had  not  some  claim  to  good 
birth — above  all,  he  wanted  a  friend,  a  confidant.  And 
as,  in  those  days,  there  was  scarcely  any  gulf  between 
the  officers  of  the  inferior  grades  and  the  soldiers  them- 
selves, Boussac  was  well  fitted  to  be  that  friend  and  con- 
fidant. Also  he  knew,  he  felt  now,  since  the  attack  of 
the  evening,  how  insecure  his  own  life  was ;  he  recog- 
nised that  at  any  moment  the  little  motherless  child  he 
bore  on  his  breast  might  be  left  alone  unfriended  in  the 
world.  Suppose,  for  instance,  he  fell  to-night  in  a  sec- 
ond attack,  or  ere  he  reached  Paris,  in  a  week,  or  a 
month  hence.  Well !  a  mousquetaire  whose  principal 
duties  were  in  Paris  near  the  king's  person  would  be  a 
friend  worth  having ! 

So  he  told  him  his  tale. 

"  My  mother,  a  Protestant  cavalier's  daughter,  was 


56  IN  THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

in  Holland  with  her  father  after  the  execution  of  the 
king.  As  you  know,  that  country  was  full  of  refugees 
from  England.  There  she  met  my  father,  '  Captain  St. 
Georges.'  But  at  that  time  De  Vannes  was  out  of  favour 
with  the  court;  he  was  allied  with  the  party  of  the 
Fronde,  also  he  was  a  Protestant.  And  I  believe  he  was 
'  Captain  St.  Georges,'  I  believe  he  was  my  mother's 
husband." 

"  Always  you  '  believe,'  monsieur.  Surely  there  must 
be  proofs !  Your  mother,  what  does  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  died,"  went  on  St.  Georges,  "  when  I  was  two 
years  old — suddenly  of  the  plague  that  spread  from  Sar- 
dinia to  many  parts  of  Europe.  It  was  because  of  her 
memory  that  I  spared  that  fellow  we  have  left  behind 
from  the  infected  grave.  I  would  not  condemn  him  to 
the  death  that  robbed  me  of  her." 

"  Therefore,"  exclaimed  Boussac,  "you  gathered  noth- 
ing from  her ! " 

"  Nothing.  I  cannot  even  remember  her.  Nay, 
some  more  years  had  to  pass  ere  I,  growing  up,  knew  that 
my  name  was  St.  Georges.  Then,  as  gradually  intelli- 
gence dawned,  I  learned  from  the  man  with  whom  I  lived, 
a  Huguenot  pastor  at  Montereau,  that  I  had  no  mother, 
and  that  my  father  was  a  soldier  who  could  rarely  find 
time  to  come  and  see  me.  Nay,  was  not  often  in  Paris, 
and  then  not  always  able  to  make  even  so  short  a  jour- 
ney as  that  to  Montereau.  Yet,"  went  on  St.  Georges, 
meditatively,  "  he  came  sometimes,  loaded  with  presents 
for  me  which  he  brought  in  the  coach,  and  passed  the 
day  with  us,  being  always  addressed  as  Captain  St 
Georges  by  the  pastor.  Those  were  happy  days,  for  he 
was  always  kind  and  good  to  me,  would  walk  out  with 
me  hand  in  hand,  would  spend  the  day  with  me  in  the 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  hard  by,  and  would  talk  about 


A  REASON.  57 

my  future.  Yet  he  was  sad,  too;  his  eyes  would  fill 
with  tears  sometimes  as  he  looked  at  me  or  stroked  my 
hair,  and  always  he  asked  me  if  I  would  be  a  soldier  as 
he  was.  And  always  in  reply  I  answered,  'Yes,'  which 
f  seemed  to  please  him.  So  I  grew  up,  treated  with  more 
and  more  respect  mingled  with  affection  from  the  pastor 
as  time  went  on ;  and,  also,  I  was  now  taught  military 
exercises  and  drilled  in  preparation  for  my  future  career. 
But  as  the  time  went  on  my  father  came  less  and  less, 
though  he  never  failed  to  send  ample  sums  to  provide 
for  my  education  and  also  for  my  pleasures.  When  I 
asked  the  pastor  why  he  never  came  near  us,  he  said  he 
was  occupied  with  his  profession,  that  he  was  away  in 
the  Palatinate  with  Turenne.  Now,  at  that  period,  I 
being  then  about  eighteen,  there  came  frequently  to 
Paris  the  story  of  all  that  was  doing  in  the  Palatinate — 
stories  that  made  the  blood  run  cold  to  hear.  Stories  of 
villages  and  towns  burnt,  so  that  never  more  should  that 
region  send  forth  enemies  against  Louis." 

"  They  penetrated  further  than  Paris  and  Mont6- 
reau,"  interrupted  Boussac,  "  ay,  even  to  our  out-of-the- 
way  part  of  France.  And  not  only  of  villages  and 
towns  burnt  and  destroyed,  but  of  fathers  and  bread- 
winners burnt  in  their  beds,  women  ill  treated,  ruin 
everywhere.  There  were  those  who  said  it  was  not 
war,  but  rapine." 

"  And  so  I  said,"  replied  St.  Georges ;  "  once  even  I 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  regretted  that  my  father 
followed  so  cruel  and  bloodthirsty  a  man  as  Turenne. 
But  the  pastor  stopped  me,  rose  up  in  his  chair  in 
anger,  bade  me  never  say  another  word  against  him — 
told  me  that  I,  of  all  alive,  had  least  right  to  judge 
him." 

"  But,"  exclaimed  Boussac,  "  this  does  not  show  that 
5 


58  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  duke  was  your  father,  monsieur.  The  worthy  pastor 
may  have  thought  it  wrong  to  encourage  you  in  speak- 
ing ill  of  one " 

"Nay;  listen,"  said  St.  Georges.  "The  year  1674 
arrived,  my  twentieth  year,  when  there  came  one  night 
my  commission  in  the  regiment — the  Nivernois.  You 
have  perhaps  never  seen  one  of  these  documents,  Bous- 
sac,  but  you  will  ere  long,  I  make  no  doubt,  when  your 
own  is  made  out  for  the  Mousquetaires.  Therefore,  I 
will  tell  you  of  its  strange  character  and  wording.  It 
was  that  the  king,  at  the  request  of  the  Due  de  Vannes, 
had  been  graciously  pleased  to  appoint  me  to  the  posi- 
tion of  porte-drapeau  in  the  Nivernois  under  De  Mailly- 
Sebret — a  brave  man,  now  dead — and  that  I  was  to  join 
it  in  Holland.  I  did  so,  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  have 
prosecuted  many  inquiries  as  to  why  De  Vannes  should 
have  procured  me  that  commission.  But  up  to  now  I 
have  never  received  positive  proof  that  he  was  my  father 
— though  still  I  do  believe  it." 

"But  why,  why,  why?"  asked  Boussac  impatiently. 
"A  man  must  have  some  friend  who  obtains  him  his 
presentation  to  a  regiment — even  I  had  our  grand 
seigneur.  And  I  never  suspected  him  of  being  my 
father ! " 

"  Doubtless  you  had  no  reason  to  do  so.  Yet,  again, 
listen.  De  Vannes  was  killed  in  1G75  ;  in  the  same  year 
— a  month  before  him — died  my  old  friend  and  pro- 
tector— the  one  man  who  had  ever  stood  in  the  light  of 
a  parent  to  me.  His  successor  found  among  his  papers 
and  chattels  a  packet  addressed  to  me,  and  forwarded  it 
by  a  sure  hand  to  Holland.  When  I  opened  it  I  found 
therein  a  miniature  of  my  mother — though  I  should  not 
have  known  it  was  she  had  he  not  informed  me  of  it — 
and  also  instructions  that  I  should  myself  seek  out  the 


A   REASON.  59 

Due  de  Vannes  at  the  first  opportunity  and  boldly  ask 
him  who  my  father  was.  '  For,'  he  wrote,  '  he  can  tell 
you  if  he  will,  and  he  ought  in  justice  to  tell  you.  I 
would  do  so  only  the  most  solemn  promise  binds  me  to 
keep  silence — a  promise  which,  had  I  never  given  it, 
would  have  stood  in  the  way  of  my  ever  being  to  you  all 
that  I  have  been — of  having  my  life  cheered  by  you,  my 
dear,  dear  one.'  I  was  preparing  to  seek  the  duke  out, 
had  obtained  leave  to  do  so  and  to  join  Turenne  in  the 
campaign,  when,  lo !  the  news  came  that  both  he  and 
De  Vannes  were  killed  on  the  same  day." 

"And  you  know  no  more?"  asked  Boussac,  as  now 
the  plain  was  passed,  and  from  the  watch  towers  of 
Chatillon  they  could  hear  the  guard  being  changed. 
And  also,  as  they  rode  up  to  the  gate,  the  challenge  of 
"  Who  comes  there?  "  rang  out  on  the  frosty  air. 

Again  the  usual  answer  was  given,  "  Chevau-Leger  " 
and  "  Mousquetaire,"  and  then,  while  the  bolts  were 
heard  creaking  harshly  in  their  sockets  as  .the  gate  was 
being  opened  for  them,  St.  Georges  turning  to  his  com- 
rade said,  in  answer  to  his  last  question  : 

"  I  know  no  more,  though  still  my  belief  is  fixed. 
But,  Boussac,  she  at  whose  manoir  I  am  bidden  to  stay 
at  Troyes — the  Marquise  de  Roquemaure — may  be  able 
to  enlighten  me.  She  was,  if  all  reports  are  true,  be- 
loved by  De  Vaunes  once,  and  I  have  heard  loved  him. 
Yet  they  never  married — perhaps  because  they  were  of 
different  faith — and  she  instead  married  De  Roque- 
maure, De  Vannes's  cousin  and  heir.  He  left  a  son  by 
his  first  wife,  who  is  now  that  heir  in  his  place.  Bous- 
sac, does  any  light  break  in  on  -you  now — can  you  con- 
ceive why  I  and  my  little  darling  asleep  under  my  cloak 
should  run  hourly,  daily  risks  of  assassination — ay ! 
even  as  to-night  we  have  run  them  ?  " 


60  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  Boussac,  "  yes.  You  stand 
in  the  path  of " 

"  Precisely.  Hush  !  See,  the  gate  is  open.  "We  may 
enter." 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard  saluted  St.  Georges  as  he 
rode  in,  followed  by  the  mousquetaire,  while  the  officer 
of  the  night,  after  bowing  politely  to  him,  held  out  his 
hand,  as  greeting  to  a  comrade. 

"  Monsieur  has  had  a  cold  journey,  though  fine — 
Heavens ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  saw  that  the  other  had  a 
strange  burden  under  his  cloak,  "  what  does  monsieur 
carry  there  ?  " 

"A  harmless  child,"  St.  Georges  said,  while  the  men 
of  the  garrison  gathered  round  to  peer  at  the  little  crea- 
ture whose  blue  eyes  were  now  staring  at  them  in  the 
rays  of  the  great  lantern  that  swung  over  the  gateway. 
"  My  child,  whose  life  would  have  been  taken  to-night 
by  five  desperadoes  had  it  not  been  for  this  honest  mous- 
quetaire who,  by  Heaven's  providence,  happened  to  be 
riding  my  road." 

From  the  soldiers  around  the  newcomers — some  risen 
half  asleep  from  their  wooden  planks  in  the  guard  room, 
some  already  on  duty  and  with  every  sense  awake  to  its 
utmost — there  rose  a  murmur  of  indignation  that  was 
not  at  all  extinguished  by  Boussac's  description  of  the 
attack  in  the  graveyard,  and  at  the  passes  made  more 
than  once  at  Dorine  under  his  own  guard  and  the  clie- 
vau-Uger's  arm. 

"Grand  Dieu!"  exclaimed  the  officer,  "five  men 
attack  two,  and  one  burdened  with  a  little  child 
under  his  arm.  Of  what  appearance  were  these 
assassins?" 

St.  Georges  described  them  as  well  as  he  could — 
mentioning  in  particular  the  leader,  who  wore  the  bur- 


A   REASON.  61 

ganet,  and  the  fellow  who  skulked  outside  the  fight — the 
man  who,  the  comrades  knew,  had  brought  the  news 
from  Dijon  that  they  were  on  the  road.  And  then  from 
all  who  surrounded  those  fresh  comers  there  arose  a 
hubbub,  a  babel  of  sound  that  drowned  everything  like 
intelligible  question  or  answer. 

"  A  man  who  wore  a  burganet,"  one  cried ;  "  a  rusty 
thing  that  would  have  disgraced  the  days  of  the  Bear- 
nais."  "  Fichte  !  "  hissed  another,  "  you  have  come  an 
hour  too  late."  "  'Twas  but  at  midnight,"  exclaimed  a 
third,  "that  he  rode  through — ten  minutes  of  mid- 
night. And,  by  good  chance  for  him,  it  was  to-night, 
since  'tis  the  last  of  our  New- Year  carousals ;  to-morrow 
the  town  will  be  closed  at  dusk  as  usual." 

"  But  where — where  is  he  gone  ?  "  asked  St.  Georges. 

"  CorUeu  !  "  exclaimed  the  officer,  "  we  had  no  right 
to  ask  him,  since  both  this  and  the  other  gates  were 
open.  Yet,  stay;  has  he  left  the  town  yet?  It  may  be 
not." 

"Ay!  but  he  has,  though,"  exclaimed  a  boyish - 
young  officer  who  at  this  moment  joined  the  group. 
"  In  truth,  he  has.  I  was  at  the  north  gate  as  he  clat- 
tered up  to  it,  calling  out  that  he  must  go  through. 
'  And  why  the  devil  must  you  ? '  I  asked,  not  liking  the 
fellow's  tone,  which  sounded  hollow  enough  through  the 
rusty  iron  pot  on  his  head.  *  I  have  been  attacked,'  he 
said ; '  nigh  murdered  by  some  ruffians,  and  am  wounded. 
I  must  get  me  home.'  'And  where  is  your  home?'  I 
asked.  '  Beyond  Bar,'  he  replied ;  '  for  Heaven's  sake, 
do  not  stop  me ! '  Whereon,"  continued  the  young  offi- 
cer, "  since  I  had  no  right  whatever  to  prevent  his  exit, 
I  let  him  go,  and  'a  second  afterward  the  clock  struck 
midnight,  and  we  clapped  the  gate  behind  him.  Yet, 
ere  that  was  done,  I  saw  him  spurring  along  the  north 


62  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

road  as  though  the  devil,  or  a  king's  exempt,  were  after 
him." 

"  The  north  road ! "  St.  Georges  said  in  a  low  voice 
to  Boussac.  "The  north  road!  You  hear?  And  the 
north  road  leads  to  De  Roquemaure's  manoir." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DRAWING    NEAR. 

Two  days  later,  when  again  the  wintry  evening  was 
fast  approaching,  St.  Georges,  by  now  alone,  drew  near 
to  the  ancient  city  of  Troyes.  So  near,  indeed,  had  he 
arrived  that  its  walls  and  fortifications  were  plainly 
visible  to  him,  and  from  its  steeples  the  bells  could  be 
heard,  either  chiming  the  hour  or  summoning  the  in- 
habitants to  evening  worship.  Beneath  his  cloak,  as 
ever,  he  bore  his  precious  burden,  who  showed  no  signs 
of  being  fatigued  by  the  long  journey  she  had  made  in 
so  rough  a  fashion,  but  often  woke  up  and,  thrusting 
her  little  head  from  out  the  folds  of  the  cloak,  smiled 
up  into  the  face  of  her  father. 

He  had  parted  with  Boussac  at  Bar,  leaving  him  there 
surrounded  by  his  comrades  of  two  troops  of  the  Mous- 
quetaires  Noirs,  from  whom  he  had  received  the  joyful 
intelligence  that  they  were  soon  to  move  on  to  Paris,  to 
be  quartered  at  Versailles,  while  two  other  troops  of 
the  "  Gris  "  were  to  replace  them — a  piece  of  news  that 
had  given  St.  Georges  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  it  had 
done  to  the  other.  For  it  seemed  to  him  that,  should 
aught  take  him  away  from  Paris  when  he  had  left  the 
child  in  the  house  of  the  Sieur  Blecy  in  the  Rue  de 


DRAWING   NEAR.  63 

Timoleon,  there  was  one  faithful  friend  oil  whom  he 
could  rely  to  keep  watch  over  it  and  see  to  its  welfare. 

"  And  be  sure,"  said  the  mousquetaire,  "  that  I  will 
do  so.  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  we  are  friends  now  in 
spite  of  our  difference  in  military  rank ;  we  have  fought 
side  by  side ;  if  you  are  not  there  to  guard  your  child,  I 
shall  be.  Meanwhile,  prosecute  your  inquiries  as  to 
the  rank  and  position — ay,  and  the  fortune ! — you  be- 
lieve, is  yours,  and  may  the  good  God  put  you  in  the 
right  way  !  Farewell,  monsieur,  and  Heaven  bless  you  ! 
You  know  where  I  may  be  communicated  with  ;  let  me 
know  also  where  I  may  send  to  you,"  and  he  stooped 
down  and  kissed  the  child  ere  he  grasped  the  other's 
hand  as  he  prepared  to  mount  his  horse. 

"Adieu,"  St.  Georges  said,  "adieu,  friend.  You 
helped  me  to  save  her  life  once.  For  that  I  thank  you, 
am  bound  to  you  forever.  I  pray  Heaven  that,  if  she 
should  need  it,  you  may  be  by  to  do  so  again."  Where- 
on, with  a  farewell  to  his  new  friend  and  to  several  offi- 
cers and  men  who  had  all  testified  as  much  interest  in 
him  and  his  charge  as  those  others  had  done  at  Chatil- 
lon,  he  set  forth  once  more  upon  another  stage  of  his 
journey. 

Both  at  Chatillon  and  in  Bar,  which  he  was  now 
leaving  behind,  he  and  Boussac  had  spoken  to  those 
whose  duty  it  was  to  keep  an  eye  to  the  safety  of  the 
highroads,  and  had  informed  the  captain  of  the  mare- 
chausse — or  mounted  patrol  of  the  highroads — of  the 
attack  that  had  been  made  on  them.  But  this  official 
had  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  remarked  that  "  it 
was  possible,  very  possible." 

"  Louvois,"  he  said,  "  is  responsible  for  all.  Either 
he  denudes  the  country  of  men  to  send  on  his  cam- 
paigns, so  that  none  are  left  to  guard  it,  or,  the  cam- 


64  IN   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

paigns  being  over,  he  pours  back  into  it  thousands  of 
disbanded  soldiers  who,  for  want  of  aught  else  to  do, 
become  filous  and  spadassins.  What  would  you  ?  And 
according  to  your  own  account,  monsieur,  you  and  your 
friend,  the  mousquetaire,  could  take  good  care  of  your- 
selves." 

" These  were  neither  filous  nor  spadassins"  replied 
St.  Georges,  "  or  at  least  the  leader  was  not.  Oh  !  that 
I  may  meet  him  again,  and  when  I  am  not  encumbered 
with  a  harmless  child  to  protect !  " 

"  You  know  him,  then,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  No.  And  since  he  carefully  disguised  his  face  as 
well  as  protected  his  head,  I  may  not  even  assert  that  I 
have  ever  seen  him.  But  I  suspect." 

"  Tell  me  the  name  of  him  you  suspect,  and  I  may 
do  something — may  call  upon  him  to  answer  your 
charge." 

"  Nay,"  replied  St.  Georges,  "  that  cannot  be.  For 
I  must  not  tarry  here  ;  I  have  the  king's  orders  to  ride 
straight  for  my  destination,  halting  no  more  than  is 
necessary  ;  and  so,  perforce,  I  must  go  on.  But  should 
you  hear  of  a  man  wearing  an  ancient  burganet  whose 
appearance  in  your  neighbourhood  seems  suspicious,  and 
who  " — remembering  the  description  given  by  the  man 
they  had  gagged  and  left  tied  to  the  tree  at  Aignay-le- 
Duc — "  is  young,  with  a  brown  beard  cropped  close  and 
gray  eyes,  I  pray  you  question  him  as  to  his  doings  two 
nights  ago.  It  may  save  your  roads  from  further  bri- 
gandage, and — should  you  confine  him  for  any  length 
of  time — his  life  from  my  sword.  For,  I  promise  you, 
if  ever  I  encounter  him  again,  and  am  sure  of  my  man, 
he  shall  not  escape  a  second  time." 

"  Mon  Dieu!"  replied  the  captain  of  the  mare- 
chausse,  "  if  he  falls  into  our  hands  I  will  warrant  him 


DRAWING   NEAR.  65 

against  your  sword.  If  we  can  but  bring  his  attack  on 
you  at  Aignay-le-Duc  home  to  him,  it  will  be  the  wheel 
and  not  the  sword  with  which  he  will  find  his  account." 

"  So  best.  Yet  I  doubt  your  catching  him,  and 
must  believe  and  hope  the  punishment  he  deserves  shall 
reach  him  through  my  hand.  If  it  is  he  whom  I  think, 
he  is  of  high  position." 

"  Many  of  high  position  have  come  to  the  wheel 
when  in  our  grip,"  said  the  fierce  old  captain,  a  man 
who  had  followed  his  trade  under  Conde.  " Ma  foil 
we  have  great'  powers,  we  of  the  marechausse,  and  for 
brigandage  on  the  king's  highway  we  use  those  powers 
swiftly.  Poof !  If  we  catch  him  and  bring  his  vaga- 
bondage home  to  him,  he  will  be  broken  all  to  pieces 
before  his  position  is  of  any  avail." 

So  in  this  frame  of  mind  St.  Georges  left  the  old 
man,  and  now,  as  night  drew  on,  he  neared  Troyes. 

All  day  he  had  pondered  on  the  meeting  that  was 
before  him — on  the  fact  that  he  was  about  to  encounter 
the  woman  who  had  once  loved  so  dearly  the  man  he 
believed  to  be  his  father.  For,  that  he  would  meet  her, 
stand  face  to  face  with  her,  he  supposed  was  certain. 
She  would  scarce  let  an  officer  of  the  chevaux-Ugers 
stay  in  her  house — sent  there  by  the  king's  orders — and 
not  summon  him  to  her  presence.  Moreover,  did  he 
not  go  there,  as  that  evil-seeming  bishop  had  said,  so 
that  he  might  also  hear  a  word  possessing  great  signifi- 
cance to  both  the  king  and  his  minister?  A  word  of 
similar  import  to  the  one  the  bishop  had  himself  sent ! 

"  Yet,"  he  pondered,  as  now  the  hum  from  the  busy 
old  city  reached  his  ears  and  he  saw  its  smoke  rising  in 
the  evening  air,  "  yet,  does  she  know  who  I  am,  whom 
I  believe  myself  to  be  ?  Ha ! "  as  a  thought  struck  him, 
"  how  else  should  it  be?  If  De  Roquemaure,  her  son,  or 


C6  IN  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

stepson,  knows,  then  she  must  know  too.  And — and 
does  she,  too,  wish  me  dead — and  you — you,  also,  my 
darling,"  with  a  pressure  of  his  arm  against  his  burden, 
"  as  well  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  If  that  is  so,  then  it  is  to  the 
lion's  jaws  I  am  going  in  entering  this  manoir  of  hers. 
No  matter !  I  will  do  it.  It  is  in  the  king's  name  I 
present  myself ;  let  us  see  who  dares  assault  his  messen- 
ger. And,"  he  muttered  fiercely  to  himself,  "if  her 
whelp,  De  Koquemaure,  is  the  man  with  the  brown 
beard — the  man  whose  voice  I  shall  know  in  a  thousand, 
although  it  reached  me  before  through  iron  bars — he 
shall  have  one  more  chance  at  my  life  in  spite  of  his 
lady  mother."  And  he  clinched  his  white  teeth  as  he 
reflected  thus. 

Knowing  what  he  did,  namely,  that  "the  whelp,  De 
Koquemaure,"  as  he  had  termed  him,  was  heir  in  a  year 
or  two  to  De  Vannes's  great  fortune,  and  coupling  with 
that  fact  that  he  and  his  child  had  been  attacked  in  a 
neighbourhood  at  no  great  distance  from  Troyes,  he  had 
begun  on  his  solitary  ride  this  day  to  speculate  as  to 
whether  the  whole  of  his  journey,  his  sudden  summons 
from  Pontarlier  to  Paris,  was  not  some  deeply  devised 
plot  to  remove  him  out  of  existence.  For,  although  he 
had  long  suspected  who  and  what  he  was,  might  it  not 
be  the  case  that  those  in  whose  light  he  stood  had  only 
recently  learned  that  such  was  the  case  ?  And,  if  such 
were  the  fact,  what  a  revelation,  what  a  blow,  such 
knowledge  would-  be  to  them !  They  had  doubtless 
long  looked  forward  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  Due  de 
Vannes's  wealth ;  if  they  had  now  discovered  that  the 
possession  of  that  wealth  might  be  disputed,  what  more 
likely  than  that  they  should  endeavour  to  remove  for 
ever  from  their  path  the  two — himself  and  his  child — 
who  could  so  dispute  it  with  them? 


DRAWING   NEAR.  67 

"  Yet,"  he  had  mused  all  through  that  day,  "  how 
know  it  since  I,  of  all  people,  have  no  certain  knowl- 
edge ;  how,  above  all,  learn  that  their  opportunity  had 
come  ?  How  know  that  I  who  stand  between  them  and 
their  greed  should  pass  upon  their  way,  come  across 
their  path?  Bah  !  "  he  finally  exclaimed,  "  it  is  a  coin- 
cidence that  I  should  so  travel  their  road,  seek  shelter 
in  the  house  that  my  father's  heir  dwells  in.  It  may  be 
that  when  I  see  this  young  De  Roquemaure  he  shall  in 
no  way  resemble  that  night  assassin  who  attacked  me ; 
it  may  be  that  his  mother  no  more  dreams  that  she  is 
about  to  see  the  son  of  the  man  she  loved  than  that  she 
will  ever  see  him  again  in  life." 

Yet,  even  as  he  so  decided,  he  knew  that  there  was 
more  than  coincidence  in  it.  He  knew  that  those  who 
had  attacked  him  and  Boussac  at  Aignay-le-Duc  were 
more  than  common  bravos.  Otherwise  the  child's  life 
would  not  have  been  sought  as  fiercely  as  his  own ;  the 
spy,  whomsoever  he  might  be,  would  not  have  ridden 
so  many  leagues  from  Dijon  to  carry  the  news  of  his 
approach. 

Therefore,  in  spite  of  his  attempted  dismissal  of  all 
his  doubts  and  suspicions,  he  resolved  that,  above  all,  he 
would  be  cautious  as  regarded  one  thing — his  child. 
She,  at  least,  was  under  no  orders  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
manoir;  the  roof  that  covered  this  marquise  and  her 
stepson  should  never  be  slept  under  by  Dorine. 

"  All  women's  hearts,"  he  murmured,  "  go  out  to  my 
motherless  babe,  strangers  though  they  be.  There  must 
be  many  such  in  this  old  city,  and  one  such  I  will 
find.  If  as — God  help  me ! — I  must  suppose,  this  she- 
wolf  and  her  husband's  son  seek  our  lives,  at  least 
they  shall  get  no  chance  at  hers.  The  mistress  of  a 
common  inn,  a  warder's  wife,  will  keep  her  in  greater 


68  IN"   THE   DAY  OP   ADVERSITY. 

safety  than  she  may  be  under  the  roof-tree  of  madame 
la  marquise." 

The  gates  of  Troyes  were  not  yet  shut — the  city  hav- 
ing too  much  traffic  with  the  outlying  hamlets  to  permit 
of  their  being  closed  early — so  that  St.  Georges  rode  in 
without  any  formalities  beyond  replying  to  the  usual 
questions  as  to  who  he  was  and  what  was  his  business, 
and,  passing  slowly  into  the  quaint  streets,  soon  came  to 
a  great  auberge  which  looked  as  though  suitable  for 
the  purpose  he  required,  a  shelter  for  the  child.  In  the 
vast  kitchen,  or  hall,  through  whose  diamond-paned 
windows  he  could  see  perfectly,  he  perceived  a  young 
bare-armed  woman  cooking  at  a  large  fireplace,  while 
around  her  at  wooden  tables  sat  the  usual  company  of 
such  places — men  drinking  in  groups  or  eating  from 
platters  which  another  woman  brought  from  the  first 
and  set  before  them.  So  he  rode  in  under  the  great 
gateway  and  called  loudly  for  an  hostler  to  come. 

At  his  summons  a  man  came  forth  who,  seeing  his 
soldierlike  appearance,  asked  if  he  desired  to  rest  there 
for  the  night,  and  stated  at  the  same  time  that  the  inn 
was  very  full. 

"  That  may  be  so,"  replied  St.  Georges,  "  yet,  per- 
haps, not  so  full  but  that  a  child  can  be  sheltered  here 
for  one  night.  See,  friend,"  he  continued,  opening  his 
cloak,  "  I  bear  one  here  who  has  been  carried  far  by  me. 
Think  you  the  hostess  will  give  her  protection  ?  She 
needs  a  good  bed  sorely." 

As  it  always  was — to  the  credit  of  humanity — the 
sight  of  the  little  helpless  thing  sleeping  on  its  father's 
arm  roused  this  man's  sympathy  as  it  had  roused  that 
of  all  others. 

"Ma  foil"  he  said,  stooping  to  gaze  at  it  as  it 
lay  on  that  arm,  "  a  rude  cradle  for  la  petite.  Yet — 


DRAWING  NEAR.  69 

there  is  no  hostess ;  the  landlord's  wife  is  dead.  And 
why — why — do  you  leave  it?  Why  not  stay  your- 
self?" 

"  I  have  to  present  myself  to  the  Marquise  de  Roque- 
maure  at  her  manoir.  Where  is  that  manoir  ?  Heaven 
grant  I  have  not  passed  it  on  the  road  ! " 

"  Half  a  league  outside  the  city — to  the  north,  on 
the  Paris  road.  If  you  have  come  from  the  south,  you 
have  not  passed  it." 

"  So !  It  is  from  the  south  I  come.  Now,  quick, 
can  I  leave  the  child  here — in  safety  ?  " 

"  I  will  see.  Wait."  And  he  went  away  toward 
the  kitchen,  leaving  St.  Georges  standing  by  his  horse 
easing  its  saddle,  and  then  holding  a  bucket  of  water, 
which  he  had  picked  up,  to  its  thirsty  mouth  with  his 
disengaged  hand. 

Presently  the  man  came  back,  followed  by  one  "of 
the  young  women  whom  St.  Georges  had  seen  waiting 
on  the  company — a  dark  girl  with  her  arms  bare — a  girl 
whose  face  looked  kind  and  honest.  And  again  with 
her,  as  with  the  others,  her  heart  went  out  to  the  little 
child  in  the  great  man's  arms.  The  sense  of  helpless- 
ness, of  dependence  on  so  unusual  a  nurse,  touched  all 
those  hearts,  especially  feminine  ones. 

Briefly  as  might  be  he  explained  to  her  what  it  was 
he  required — a  night's  shelter  for  and  watchfulness  over 
the  child,  he  having  to  visit  the  Manoir  de  Roquemaure. 
Also,  he  said,  he  would  come  back  early  in  the  morning 
to  fetch  it  away. 

"  If,"  said  the  girl,  a  little  hesitatingly,  for  she  was 
but  a  waitress  at  the  inn,  "  monsieur  will  intrust  the 
child  to  me — it  is  a  pretty  thing,  and  see — see — how 
tired  it  is ! — how  it  yawns ! — then  I  will  do  my  best.  It 
may  sleep  with  me,  and  I  am  used  to  children.  I  have 


70  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

several  little  sisters  whom  I  saw  to  after  my  mother's 
death  and  before  I  took  service." 

"I  will  intrust  it  to  you  most  thankfully,"  St. 
Georges  replied.  "Your  face  is  honest,  my  girl,  and 
true." 

So — telling  her,  as  he  had  told  others  on  his  road, 
that  the  child  was  motherless — he  kissed  it,  and  bade  it 
good-night,  saying  inwardly,  as  he  ever  said  when  he 
parted  from  it,  a  little  prayer  that  God  would  guard 
and  have  it  in  his  keeping,  and  so  let  the  waitress  take 
it  away.  But,  because  something  told  him  he  was  in  a 
dangerous  neighbourhood,  he  impressed  upon  her  that 
she  should  in  no  way  leave  it  more  than  was  absolutely 
necessary ;  above  all,  he  begged  her  and  the  hostler,  who 
was  a  witness  to  the  proceedings,  to  remember  that  they 
need  say  nothing  about  a  child  having  been  left  in  her 
care.  And  they,  with  many  protestations  that  they 
would  not  chatter,  assured  him  that  he  need  be  under 
no  apprehension. 

"  I  take  my  rest,"  the  girl  said,  "  at  the  close  of  day. 
The  child  shall  not  leave  me  till  I  rise  at  dawn,  nor, 
indeed,  until  monsieur  returns.  I  promise." 

Then  he  let  her  go  away  with  it,  and  busied  himself 
next  with  his  horse,  seeing  that  it  was  rubbed  down  and 
freshened  with  a  feed.  "For,"  said  he,  patting  its 
flank,  "  you  have  another  league  to  do,  my  friend,  ere 
your  rest  comes."  And  the  animal  being  refreshed,  he 
gave  the  hostler  a  piece  of  silver  as  earnest  of  more  in 
the  morning  if  he  found  he  had  not  been  chattering, 
and  so  made  for  the  North  Gate. 

"And  now,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  passed  out, 
"  for  the  house  of  the  woman  De  Vannes  loved,  the 
house  of  the  man  who,  I  believe,  thirsts  for  my  life  and 
the  life  of  my  child." 


A  ROYAL  SUMMONS.  71 

CHAPTEK  IX. 

A    ROYAL  SUMMONS. 

"  La  plus  cruellc  dc  toutes  les  voies  par  laquclle  lo  roi  fut  instruit 
bien  des  annees  fut  celle  de  1'ouverture  des  lettres.  II  est  incroyable 
combien  des  gens  de  toutes  les  sortes  en  furent  plus  ou  moins  perdus." 

St.  Simon. 

A  FORTNIGHT  before  St.  Georges  had  set  out  upon 
his  long  and,  as  it  had  already  proved,  hazardous  ride 
from  Pontarlier  to  Paris,  four  men  were  busily  em- 
ployed in  a  small,  neatly  furnished  cabinet  at  Versailles 
— a  little  apartment  that  partook  more  of  the  appear- 
ance of  a  bureau,  or  office,  than  aught  else. 

Two  were  seated  at  a  table  facing  each  other;  be- 
hind each  of  these  was  one  of  the  others,  who  handed 
them  papers  rapidly  drawn  from  portfolios  which  they 
carried.  Of  the  men  who  were  seated,  the  one  with  his 
hat  on  and  wearing  a  costume  of  brown  velvet — because 
already  the  days  were  very  cold — was  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth ;  the  other,  whose  manner  was  extremely  rough 
and  coarse — indeed  brutal,  except  when  addressing  the 
king  himself — was  Louvois,  the  Minister  of  War,  osten- 
sibly, but  in  reality  the  one  minister  who  had  his  fin- 
gers in  all  the  business  of  the  state.  Those  standing 
behind  each  of  the  others  were  Pajot  and  Rouillier,  who 
farmed  the  postal  service  from  the  crown. 

"  Finissons"  said  Louis,  in  the  low  clear  voice  that 
expressed,  according  to  all  reports,  more  authority  than 
even  the  trumpet  tones  of  many  of  his  great  command- 
ers— finissons.  The  morning  wears  away.  What  re- 
mains to  be  done  ?  "  Then  in  a  rich  murmur  he  said  : 
"  It  has  not  been  too  interesting  to-day.  My  subjects 
are  losing  the  art  of  letter-writing." 


72  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

On  the  table  there  lay  five  large  portfolios  bound  in 
purple,  leather  and  impressed  with  a  crown  and  the  let- 
ters L.  E.  Also  upon  each  was  stamped  a  description 
of  its  contents.  On  one  was  inscribed,  in  French  of 
course,  "  Letters  opened  at  the  Post " ;  another  "  Con- 
duct of  Princes  and  Lords";  a  third  bore  upon  it 
"  Private  Life  of  Bishops  and  Prelates " ;  a  fourth, 
"  Private  Life  of  Ecclesiastics  " ;  and  the  fifth,  "  Ileport 
of  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Police." 

Furnished  thus  with  these  five  reports,  which  reached 
his  august  hands  and  were  inspected  weekly  by  his  au- 
gust eyes,  Louis  considered  that  the  whole  of  his  sub- 
jects' existences  were,  if  not  known  to  him,  at  least 
very  likely  at  some  period  or  other  to  come  under  his 
supervision.  What  he  did  not  know,  however,  was  that 
Louvois,  who  was  the  originator  of  the  odious  system  of 
opening  letters  sent  through  the  post,  did  not  always 
show  to  him  those  epistles  which  came  first  into  his 
own  hands.  Therefore  in  this  case,  as  in  many  others 
before  and  after  the  days  of  Louis  le  Dieudonne,  the 
valet  was  a  greater  man  than  his  master. 

It  was  the  case  now-^as  it  had  often  been ! — the 
king  had  seen  some  threescore  letters  marked  with  the 
senders'  names  or  initials ;  and  there  was  one  he  had 
not  seen. 

He  seemed  a  little  weary  this  morning — nay,  had  he 
not  been  so  great  a  king,  as  well  as  a  man  who  had 
almost  every  impulse  under  control,  it  would  almost 
have  appeared  that  he  was  a  little  irritated  at  the  con- 
tents of  the  first  portfolio,  that  one  inscribed  "  Letters 
opened  at  the  Post."  "  For,"  he  continued,  after  des- 
canting on  the  art  of  letter-writing  which  his  subjects 
appeared  to  have  lost,  "  the  responsibility  given  to  the 
masters  of  our  royal  post  seems  to  me,  my  good  Louvois, 


A  ROYAL  SUMMONS.  73 

to  be  greater  than  their  minds — provincial  in  most 
cases — appear  able  to  sustain.  They  mark  letters  from 
the  local  seigneurs  as  worthy  of  perusal  by  us  in  Paris 
ere  being  forwarded  to  their  destination,  which,  in  truth, 
are  barren  of  interest.  To  wit,"  he  went  on,  with  that 
delicate  irony  for  which  he  was  noted,  "  we  have  opened 
fifty-five  letters,  and  in  not  one  of  them  is  there  the 
slightest  hint  of  even  murmuring  against  our  royal  au- 
thority, no  suggestion  of  resisting  our,  or  the  seigniorial, 
imposts,  not  even  the  faintest  suggestion  of  an  attack 
against  our  royal  person.  They  are  harmless,  and  con- 
sequently wearisome." 

"  I  regret,"  replied  Louvois,  softening  his  raucous 
voice  to  the  tones  absolutely  necessary  when  addressing 
Louis,  "  that  your  Majesty  finds  the  system  so  barren  of 
interest.  But,  I  may  with  all  deference  suggest,  per- 
haps, that  it  has  one  gratifying  result.  All  these  letters 
are  from  the  most  important  persons  among  your 
Majesty's  subjects,  yet  there  is,  as  your  Majesty  observes, 
no  one  word  hostile  to  your  rule  or  sacred  person.  The 
system — rny  system — testifies  at  least  to  that  agreeable 
fact." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  king,  in  the  calm,  unruffled  voice, 
"  it  testifies  to  that.  You  are  right.  What  else  is  there 
to  do?" 

"  But  little,  your  Majesty.  Yet,  with  your  permis- 
sion, something.  May  I  also  suggest  that  Monsieur 
Pajot  and  the  Vicomte  de  Rouillier  may  retire  ?  " 

Louis  signified  by  a  bend  of  his  head  that  they 
might  do  so,  whereon  the  two  "  farmers,"  after  pro- 
found obeisances,  left  the  room,  and  the  king  and  his 
minister  again  applied  themselves  to  the  work  before 
them. 

It  was  of  a  multifarious  nature,  since  it  dealt  with 
6 


74  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  contents  of  each  of  the  portfolios,  exclusive  of  the 
first — the  one  whose  contents  had  been  so  barren  of 
interest  to  the  king,  and  which  contents  would  never 
now  arrive  at  their  destination  in  spite  of  his  Majesty's 
remark  about  their  being  forwarded  on.  For,  since  the 
seals  and  thread  had  necessarily  to  be  broken  ere  those 
contents  could  be  perused,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
send  them  on  to  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
But  what  became  of  them  instead,  probably  Louvois 
only  knew.  It  may  be  that  they  were  put  away  care- 
fully, to  be  brought  out  years  afterward,  if  needed,  and 
when  their  present  harmless  contents  might,  in  the 
movement  of  time,  have  altered  their  nature  and  have 
become,  if  not  damning,  at  least  compromising. 

Taking  up  the  second  portfolio,  marked  "  Conduct 
of  Princes  and  Lords,"  Louvois  extracted  one  paper  and 
read  out  briefly :  "  The  young  Count  de  Quince  has 
eloped  with  Mademoiselle  le  Brun,  daughter  of  a  rich 
mercer  in  Guise.  Her  brother,  attempting  to  stop  the 
carriage  in  which  they  were  setting  out  for  Paris,  was 
slain  by  the  count's  body-servant."  After  reading  which, 
Louvois  looked  up  at  his  master. 

"Write,"  said  Louis  in  reply,  "that  De  Quince  is 
not  to  enter  Paris.  He  is  to  be  arrested  at  the  gate  and 
taken  to  the  Bastille.  There  he  will  be  judged.  Pro- 
ceed." 

Selecting  from  the  third  portfolio  two  papers,  Lou- 
vois went  on :  "  The  Bishop  of  Beauvais  referred  in  a 
sermon,  delivered  three  weeks  ago,  to  the  birth  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon  in  the  prison  of  Niort,  and 
pointed  a  moral  as  to  how " 

"  One  may  rise  by  good  works,"  interrupted  the  king. 
"  The  bishop  is  indiscreet,  but  truthful.  Let  it  pass. 
Proceed." 


A  ROYAL  SUMMONS.  75 

"  The  Grand  Prior  of  Chavagnac  entertains  daily  in 
Paris  many  courtesans  at  his  table." 

"  Write  that  he  retires  at  once  to  his  priory.  If  he 
refuses,  arrest  him  and  bring  him  before  me.  Above  all, 
the  Church  must  be  kept  pure.  Continue." 

The  work  was  done,  however,  since  Louvois  informed 
the  king  that  the  contents  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  port- 
folios scarcely  needed  his  attention.  Yet,  since  he  knew 
that  Louis  would  not  be  satisfied  without  himself  seeing 
the  reports  which  they  contained,  he  rose,  and,  bringing 
each  in  its  turn  to  the  king,  placed  it  before  him. 

"  So,"  his  Majesty  said,  when  he  had  glanced  at 
them,  ".our  morning's  work  is  done  and  easily  done. 
The  reports  are  meagre,  and,  in  the  latter  cases,  deal 
with  persons  better  left  to  the  magistrates.  Now," 
as  a  clock  above  the  mantelpiece  struck  eleven,  •"  I  am 
expected,"  and  he  rose  from  the  table  as  though  to 
depart. 

"There  are  a  few  papers  requiring  your  Majesty's 
signature,"  the  minister  said,  "though  none  of  great 
importance.  Will  your  Majesty  please  to  sign  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see  them,"  and,  as  before,  the  papers  were 
placed  before  the  king  for  him  to  read  ere  affixing  his 
signature. 

He  glanced  at  each  ere  he  did  so,  but,  since  he  al- 
ready knew  their  purport,  made  no  remark  as  he  signed, 
until,  at  last,  he  came  to  one  addressed  to  "  Monsieur 
Georges  St.  Georges,  Lieutenant  des  Chevaux-Legers  de 
Nivernois,  en  garnison  a  Pontarlier,"  when  he  stopped 
and  began  to  read  it  all  through ;  while  Louvois,  pre- 
tending to  be  busy  at  some  other  papers,  watched  him 
stealthily  from  under  his  eyebrows. 

"  Georges  St.  Georges,"  he  said  at  last — "  Georges  St. 
Georges — I  recall  the  name  and  that  I  ordered  this  let- 


76  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

ter  to  be  prepared  last  week.  Repeat  the  circum- 
stances." 

"  Your  Majesty  will  remember  that  this  gentleman's 
commission  was  obtained  from  you  by  the  late  Due  de 
Vannes,  and  that  you  ordered  me  to  watch  his  career, 
and,  when  the  time  came,  to  recommend  him  to  you  for 
promotion,  should  he  have  proved  himself  worthy  of  it." 

"  I  remember,  although  it  was  some  time  ago.  And 
•  also  that  a  month  or  so  ago  you  told  me  the  time  had 
come  for  such  promotion,  and  that,  therefore,  he  should 
be  ordered  to  come  to  Paris.  But,  my  good  Louvois,  you 
have  here  given  orders  to  Monsieur  St.  Georges  to  partic- 
ularly quarter  himself  upon  the  Bishop  of  Lod£ve,  now 
at  Dijon,  upon  the  Marquise  de  Roquemaure  at  Troyes, 
and,  at  Melun,  upon  Monsieur  de  Riverac.  I  remember 
no  instructions  of  that  nature,  nor  do  I  see  any  necessity 
for  them.  Why  should  not  this  officer  stay  at  any  inn  ? 
Others  have  had  to  do  so.  Why  not  he?  " 

"  Again,"  replied  Louvois,  once  more  glancing  fur- 
tively at  his  master, "  I  have  to  remind  your  Majesty 
that,  by  issuing  these  orders  to  Monsieur  St.  Georges, 
we  are  utilizing  him  as  a  special  courier  on  behalf  of 
your  Majesty,  and  that  he  is  one  who  can  be  trusted — 
since  he  has  no  opportunity  of  betraying  us.  We  desire 
to  know  from  Phelypeaux — the  bishop — whether  the 
riots  in  Languedoc  are  to  be  feared  or  not ;  whether,  in- 
deed, it  is  necessary  quietly  to  put  into  that  neighbour- 
hood any  more  regiments.  St.  Georges  will  bring  the 
word,  *  Yes,'  or  '  No.'  Far  better  that,  your  Majesty, 
than  any  letter.  Also  we  desire  to  know  whether  in 
Champagne,  and  especially  in  Troyes,  the  capital  of  the 
department,  the  Flemings  from  the  north  and  the  Lor- 
rainers  from  the  east  are  still  endeavouring  to  stir  them 
to  revolt.  And  who  better  than  the  Marquise  de  Roque- 


A  ROYAL  SUMMONS.  77 

maure  to  send  us  the  word,  the  one  word,  'Yes'  or 
'  No '  ?  A  fervent  loyalist,  your  Majesty,  and  devoted  to 
your  royal  interests." 

"  Ay,"  the  king  said,  "  a  fervent  loyalist."  Then, 
after  musing  a  moment,  he  said:  "'Twas  strange  she 
never  married  De  Vannes ;  all  thought  she  loved  him  in 
those  far-off  days.  And,  del!  Hortense  de  Foy  was 
handsome  enough  to  suit  any  man's  taste.  I  see  her 
now  as  she  was  then,  beautiful  as  the  morning.  Why, 
I  wonder,  did  she  marry  De  Vannes's  cousin  and  friend, 
Roquemaure,  instead  of  him  ?  " 

Louvois  shrugged  his  shoulders — though  as  respect- 
fully as  a  man  must  perform  such  an  action  before  a  su- 
perior— then  he  said  with  a  slight  and  also  respectful 
smile,  the  smile  of  the  dependent : 

"  Your  Majesty's  royal  ancestor  said, ' Souvent  femme 
varied  That  may  explain  why  Mademoiselle  de  Foy 
married  one  man,  when  the  world,  when  even  your 
Majesty,"  with  subtle  flattery,  "  thought  she  loved  an- 
other." 

"  My  ancestor  knew  what  he  was  talking  about  when 
he  discussed  womankind,"  Louis  remarked.  "  Well, 
perhaps  his  saying  explains  the  caprices  of  Hortense. 
I  have  not  seen  her  for  years.  She  rests  ever  in  her  pro- 
vincial manoir.  It  may  be  she  has  changed  much — her 
beauty  vanished." 

"  If  so,  your  Majesty,  at  least  she  has  transmitted  it 
to  her  daughter.  I  have  seen  Mademoiselle  de  Roque- 
maure, and  she  is  beautiful  as  ever  her  mother  could 
have  been.  She  was  the  guest  of  Madame  de  Chevreuse 
last  summer." 

"  I  would  I  had  seen  her,  too.  She  would  have  re- 
called Hortense  de  Foy  as  she  was  in  her  youth ;  per- 
haps," with  what  seemed  to  the  wily  minister  something 


78  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

like  a  sigh,  "  my  own  youth,  too."  Then  changing  his 
tone  back  to  his  ordinary  one,  he  asked :  "  There  is  a  son, 
the  present  Marquis  de  Koquemaure;  why  does  he  so 
rarely  come  to  court  ?  " 

"  He  thinks,  your  Majesty,  of  but  two  things :  first, 
the  inheritance  of  the  Due  de  Vannes,  of  which,  through 
his  father,  he  is  the  heir  on  arriving  at  his  thirtieth 
year ;  and,  secondly,  of  his  horses  and  hounds.  But  when 
he  has  attained  his  majority  and  has  the  duke's  for- 
tune, he  proposes  to  present  himself  to  your  Majesty. 
And " 

The  speaker  was  interrupted  by  a  scratching  at  the 
door,  which  brought  a  smile  to  both  their  faces,  while 
Louis,  starting  up  from  his  chair,  exclaimed  : 

"  del!  It  is  the  half  hour,  and  Malice  is  hungry  "  ; 
and,  thrusting  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  velvet 
coat,  he  produced  come  crumbs  of  cake,  which  he  pre- 
sented to  a  little  spaniel  that  rushed  in  and  leaped  about 
him  as  Louvois  opened  the  door.*  Then,  turning  to 
the  minister,  he  said  : 

"Write  to  the  Marquis  de  Roquemaure  that  the 
king  desires  his  company  at  court  for  the  fetes  of  the 
Epiphany.  Also  write  that  he  desires  that  Mademoi- 
selle de  Roquemaure  shall  accompany  her  brother,  as  the 
king's  guests.  I  would  see  this  beautiful  offshoot  of  so 
fair  a  woman  as  her  mother  was,"  and,  bending  his  head, 
he  advance'd  toward  the  door,  followed  by  Malice.  But 
as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  Louvois  observed 
with  great  humility  that  "doubtless  his  Majesty  had 
omitted,  forgotten  in  his  royal  recollections  of  other 
days,  that  the  letter  to  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  the  trust- 


*  "  lie  roi  donner  &  manger  &  scs  chiens  toujours  soi-meme."- 
La  Fare,  St.  Simon,  and  others. 


A  ROYAL  SUMMONS.  79 

worthy  officer  who  would  bring  the  word  from  the 
Bishop  of  Lodeve,  and  from  the  Marquise  de  Roque- 
maure,  was  still  unsigned."  . 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  St.  Georges,"  exclaimed  the  king ; 
and  taking  up  the  pen  he  wrote  his  name  at  the  bottom 
of  the  last  sheet,  leaving  ro6m  only  for  Louvois  to  un- 
dersign it.  Then,  with  many  bows  from  the  minister 
and  amid  the  salutes  of  the  two  sentinels  outside  in  the 
corridor,  he  passed  to  Madame  de  Maintenon's  rooms, 
accompanied  by  the  little  spaniel. 

Left  alone  by  himself,  Louvois  worked  at  his  papers 
for  two  hours  unceasingly,  reading  some  that  were  al- 
ready written,  signing  and  undersigning  others — among 
the  latter  the  one  to  the  Lieutenant  St.  Georges — and 
destroying  some.  Also,  he  directed  much  correspond- 
ence with  the  marshals  and  generals  commanding  in 
various  parts  of  France — working  at  this  with  two  sec- 
retaries whom  he  summoned.  But  at  last  all  his  volu- 
minous despatches  were  finished,  closed  up,  and  directed 
to  the  different  persons  for  whom  they  were  intended, 
some  to  go  by  the  king's  couriers  and  some  by  the  royal 
post.  And  among  all  the  correspondence  which  went 
forth  that  night  from  the  minister  were  two  letters,  one 
of  which  was  addressed  to  the  officer  commanding  the 
Regiment  de  Nivernois  at  Pontarlier,  and  containing 
those  instructions  for  St.  Georges  which  bade  him  repair 
forthwith  to  Paris.  The  other  was  directed  to  the  Mar- 
quis de  Roquemaure,  at  his  manoir  near  Troyes,  and  was 
as  follows : 

"  He  sets  out  for  Paris  the  last  day  of  the  year  or  the 
first  of  the  new  one.  He  may  take  his  child  with  him. 
He  is  ordered  to  rest  at  Phelypeaux's,  at  madame  your 
mother's,  and  at  De  Riverac's." 


80  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

That  was  all,  the  letter  containing  neither  date  nor 
signature. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MADAME  LA   MARQUISE. 

"A  MANOIR  !"  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  as  he  halted 
his  horse  in  front  of  the  place.  "  More  like  a  fort ! 
Mon  Dieu  !  Madame  is  well  installed." 

She  was,  indeed,  judging  by  the  building  which  now 
rose  before  him  from  the  side  of  the  road  along  which 
he  had  come.  Unapproached  by  any  path,  unsurronnded 
by  any  out-towers  or  fortalices,  the  Manoir  of  lioque- 
maure  raised  a  great  stone  wall  or  rampart  to  the  road  ; 
a  wall  almost  blank  on  this  side  of  windows  with  the 
exception  of  some  arrow-slits,  and  at  either  end  of  it — 
one  looking  south,  the  other  north — two  tourelles,  pene- 
trated also  with  oittets  at  regular  distances  from  each 
other ;  and  by  each  tourelle,  on  its  outer  side,  a  small, 
high  door  of  antique,  Fra^ois  Premier  style,  or  even 
older,  through  which  a  mounted  man  might  ride.  Doors 
shut  fast  on  this  wintry  night,  and  with  no  sign  of  life 
at  either  doorways  or  loopholes,  except  in  so  far  as  a 
great  lantern,  swinging  on  a  rope  above  one  of  the  for- 
mer and  emitting  its  dull  rays,  might  be  said  to  testify 
to  the  place  being  inhabited. 

"  More  like  a  fort ! "  again  exclaimed  St.  Georges  as 
he  regarded  the  almost  blank  wall,  "  far  more ;  yet,  un- 
less I  am  spied  on  and  watched  from  within,  not  over- 
well  guarded,  though  I  presume  my  lady  has  no  foes  to 
guard  against.  Well,  here's  for  it,"  and  advancing  his 
horse  to  the  doorway  he  reached  out  his  hand,  took  the 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  81 

horn  that  hung  on  a  chain  close  by,  and  sounded  some 
notes.  Then,  while  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his  sum- 
mons, he  backed  his  horse  into  the  middle  of  the  road 
which  bulged  out  semicircularly  in  front  of  the  long 
building,  and  observed  it  carefully.  "A  grim,  hard 
place,"  he  said  to  himself,  regarding  it  under  the  rays 
of  the  young  moon  that  was  now  stronger  and  clearer 
than  when  it  had  shed  its  feeble  rays  over  the  hamlet  of 
Aignay-le-Duc,  "  and  my  enemy's  stronghold,  or  I  am 
mistaken.  A  place  in  which  a  man  when  once  en- 
trapped might  find  it  difficult  to  fight  his  way  out  of. 
No  exit  but  those  doors  at  either  side — a  cat  could  hardly 
slip  through  the  arrow-slits ! — and  all  along  beyond 
either  side  a  wide  moat,  with  palisades  on  the  inner 
bank.  Humph !  "Well,  let  us  see.  If  my  friend  in  the 
burganet,  or  volant-piece,  or  whatever  he  terms  his  rusty 
headdress,  is  here,  the  fight  will  be  inside.  So,  so! 
May  the  end  of  it  be  as  the  other  was !  I  am  at  least 
forearmed." 

As  he  mused  thus — firm,  determined,  and  cool,  and 
fearing  not  to  enter  this  grim  abode,  since  she  whom  he 
loved  more  than  his  life  was  safe  in  the  city  half  a  league 
away — he  heard  the  locks  being  turned  in  the  doorway 
and  saw  the  door  open,  doubtless  after  he  had  been  re- 
garded from  the  grille  high  up  in  it.  Then  a  man 
appeared  in  the  open  space  and,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  looked  out  at  the  cavalier  sitting  there  on  his 
horse — a  man  dressed  as  a  servitor  in  some  dark  mate- 
rial, elderly,  and  with  upon  his  head  the  serving-man's 
wig  known  as  la  brigadiere.  Behind  him  there  stood 
another — almost  a  boy,  and  also  evidently  a  servant. 

"  What,"  he  asked,  "  may  monsieur  desire  ?  He 
summons  the  house  somewhat  late." 

"  To  obey  the  order  of  his  Majesty  the  king — to  wait 


82  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSFTY. 

upon  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Roquemaure.  Say  to  her, 
if  she  be  in  her  house,  that  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  of  the 
Chevaux-Legers  of  Nivernois,  has  come  by  order  of  the 
king  to  attend  upon  madame  as  he  passes  on  his  way  to 
Paris  from  Pontarlier." 

The  man  bowed  as  he  heard  the  words  "  by  order  of 
the  king  " ;  then  he  said  he  would  carry  his  message. 
Would  monsieur -be  so  good  as  to  wait  until  he  re- 
turned? And  monsieur  answering  that  he  would  do  so, 
the  other  withdrew,  leaving  the  door  open,  and  the 
younger  servant  standing  in  it,  regarding  St.  Georges, 
who  still  continued  to  cast  his  eyes  over  the  ancient  pile. 

Presently  the  man  came  back  and  said  : 

"Madame  la  marquise  bids  me  say  that  any  one 
ordered  to  visit  her  by  his  Majesty  is  welcome.  Will 
monsieur  be  good  enough  to  enter  ?  Monsieur  doubt- 
less stops  the  night — a  room  shall  be  at  his  service. 
Madame  and  her  daughter  sup  half  an  hour  later ;  she 
trusts  monsieur  will  honour  her  by  joining  the  repast." 

"  Her  daughter  ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges  ;  "  she  has 
a  daughter !  Indeed  !  "  Then  remembering  himself, 
he  replied  :  "  Make  my  compliments  to  madame  and  say 
that  I  will  join  her.  Yet,  my  friend,  excuse  me  to  her, 
too,  for  the  manner  in  which  I  shall  appear  before  her. 
I  have  ridden  far  in  rough  weather ;  I  am  scarce  pre- 
sentable." 

"Madame  will  understand,"  the  servitor  answered 
respectfully.  "  As  will  Mademoiselle  Aurelie. — Gas- 
ton,"  to  the  younger  servant,  "  take  monsieur's  horse." 

"  And,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  be  very  attentive  to  it,  I 
pray  you.  No  soldier  ever  had  a  better  or  a  truer  one." 
He  would  have  liked  to  see  it  fed  and  littered  down 
himself,  but  could  hardly  insist  on  doing  so ;  therefore — 
though  he  feared  he  was  in  the  house  of  a  deadly 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  83 

enemy ! — he  was  forced  to  let  the  trusty  creature,  the 
animal  on  whose  fleetness  and  strength  not  only  his 
journey,  but  maybe  his  life  depended — be  taken  away 
to  some  unknown  stable. 

"  Have  no  fear,  monsieur,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Gas- 
ton  loves  animals  better  than  his  own  kind.  Even 
though  you  were  his  most  hated  foe,  your  beast  would 
be  sacred  to  him." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  St.  Georges,  as  the 
youth,  with  a  smile,  led  the  horse  away.  Then  to  him- 
self he  said,  "  I  only  hope  that,  should  he  know  I  am 
his  master's  enemy,  he  will  be  equally  good  to  it ! " 

And  now,  as  he  followed  the  old  man  it  was  revealed 
to  him  how  inappropriate  was  the  name  of  manoir  to 
this  place,  it  having  indeed  been,  if  it  was  no  longer 
altogether  so,  a  strongly  fortified  residence,  and  doubt- 
less had  served  as  such  in  bygone  ages.  An  outer  court 
led  into  a  second  or  inner  one,  which  seemed  to  con- 
stitute a  hall,  since  it  was  roofed  and  more  or  less 
furnished.  On  the  walls  hung  arms  of  all  kinds,  both 
ancient  and  of  the  period  of  the  day,  and  ranging  from 
battle-axes,  maces  and  two-handled  swords,  boar-spears, 
halberds,  and  crossbows  to  more  modern  rapiers,  pikes, 
musketoons,  pistols,  and  blunderbusses.'  Also  about  this 
court  or  hall  there  was  much  armour,  plate,  mail,  both 
gambeson  and  chain,  and  many  headpieces,  gantlets, 
shields,  etc. 

"  Doubtless,"  thought  St.  Georges  as  he  followed  the 
old  man  past  all  these  and  up  a  broad  staircase  leading 
to  the  first  floor ;  "  it  was  from  this  choice  armoury  that 
my  friend  of  the  burganet  drew  his  protection.  Faith  ! 
he  had  enough  to  choose  from  !  " 

Escorted  along  a  passage  on  this  flight,  the  old  man 
showed  him  into  a  room  comfortably  furnished  as  a 


84  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

sleeping  apartment — vastly  different  from  that  of  Phely- 
peaux  at  Dijon — and  informed  him  that  he  would  re- 
turn later,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  to  escort  him  to  the 
presence  of  madame  la  marquise,  who  would  receive 
him  for  supper — after  which  and  having  proffered  his 
services  as  valet,  which  St.  Georges  said  he  had  no  need 
for,  he  left  the  room. 

The  toilet  made  by  the  cavalier  was  necessarily  short, 
since  a  soldier  en  route  in  those  days  had  to  depend 
upon  any  attentions  to  his  appearance  which  he  might 
be  able  to  pay  by  whatever  opportunities  came  in  his 
way.  There  were,  however,  in  this  room  all  the  articles 
generally  to  be  found  in  a  country  house  of  the  time — a 
large  metal  basin  and  ewer  of  fresh  water,  some  brushes, 
and  a  mirror — and  with  these  he  was  able  to  attend  to 
his  hands,  face,  and  hair,  to  remove  some  of  the  stains 
of  travel  from  his  clothes  and  long  brown  boots,  and  to 
make  himself  sufficiently  presentable.  At  first,  because 
he  was  a  gentleman  and  could  not  suppose  that  treachery 
might  be  intended  him,  at  least  before  ladies,  he  had 
thought  to  leave  his  sword  behind,  but  a  second  reflec- 
tion prompted  him  to  take  it  with  him.  It  was  true  no 
attack  was  likely  to  be  made  while  he  sat  at  meat  with 
the  woman  whose  hospitality  he  was  receiving,  but  a 
sword,  he  reflected,  was  part  of  a  soldier's  dress  and 
therefore  not  out  of  place,  and — it  was,  perhaps,  not 
safe  to  leave  it  behind  ! 

Having  decided  thus  and  the  servitor  not  being  yet 
returned,  he  made  a  slight  inspection  of  his  room,  as 
became  one  who  was  in  a  stranger's  house,  and  that 
stranger  a  person  whose  friendliness  toward  him  might 
— if  he  knew  as  much  as  he  suspected  of  his  history — 
be  doubtful.  The  room  itself  was  a  fairly  large  one, 
hung  with  tapestry  representing,  as  he  supposed,  scenes 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  85 

from  the  ancient  romancists,  and  lit  by  a  window  let 
into  the  upper  part  of  the  wall,  so  high  up  that  no  one 
could  see  out  of  it  except  by  standing  on  the  table.  Of 
.  doors  he  could  perceive  no  other  but  the  one  by  which 
he  had  entered ;  nor  on  the  floor,  which  was  of  polished 
wood  or  parquet,  was  there  any  sign  that  entrance  could 
be  made  thereby — such  entrance  being  a  not  uncommon 
thing  in  ancient  houses  of  the  type  of  this  manoir.  On 
the  walls,  let  in  between  the  tapestry  and  either  lightly 
fastened  to  the  panelling  or  painted  thereon,  were  two 
full-length  pictures — one  of  a  man  in  full  armour  with 
his  visor  up  and  showing  a  stern,  heavily  mustached 
face  ;  the  other  of  a  young  woman  in  antique  costume. 

Satisfied  by  this  inspection — made  as  best  might  be 
by  the  feeble  rays  of  the  lamp  which  the  old  man  had 
left  behind  for  his  use — St.  Georges  sat  down  upon  the 
chair  by  the  bed  and  waited  for  the  servitor  to  come 
and  escort  him  to  his  hostess,  and  meditated — a  little 
anxiously,  perhaps — on  what  his  interview  with  her  and 
her  daughter  might  bring  forth. 

"  Is  she,  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "  the  she-wolf  I 
have  pictured  her  to  myself  as  being  ?  Does  she  know, 
for  truth,  who  and  what  I  am — who  and  what  I  believe 
myself  to  be  ?  She  may !  It  may  indeed  be  so.  If  all 
reports  are  true  that  I  have  been  able  to  gather  and 
piece  together  in  my  remote  life,  far  away  from  Paris 
and  the  world,  she  loved  De  Vannes  once — was  his  affi- 
anced wife.  What  may  she  not  therefore  have  known 
of  his  past  ?  May  know  that  I  stand  between  this  son 
of  her  husband  and  his  desire,  his  succession;  may 
stand,  indeed,  between  her  and  the  enjoyment  for  her 
lifetime  of  what  her  husband  would  have  enjoyed  had 
he  lived.  And  more — far  more — does  she  know  of  the 
attack  on  me  three  nights  ago  ?  Did  she  encourage — 


86  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

perhaps  prompt — that  attack?  I  must  watch  her, 
study  her  for  myself !  The  time  is  at  hand,  surely." 

It  was,  indeed,  for  at  that  moment  a  knocking  at 
the  door  told  him  that  the  old  man  had  come  back  for 
him.  And  so  he  went  forth,  prepared  to  meet  his 
hostess. 

His  conductor  led  him  down  the  great  stairs  and 
back  into  the  great  hall ;  then  he  knocked  at  a  door  on 
the  left,  and,  on  being  bidden  to  enter,  opened  the  door 
and  ushered  St.  Georges  into  the  room. 

A  room  large  and  vast,  hung  with  great  tapestries — 
representing  heie  battle  and  hunting  scenes — with,  at 
the  end,  a  great  oriel  window  over  which  more  tapestry 
was  drawn,  but  beneath  which  could  be  seen  the  brack- 
ets, or  corbels,  supporting  it.  Near  this  was  the  great 
marble  chimney-piece,  the  jambs  richly  carved  with 
figures,  the  mantel  six  feet  from  the  floor,  and  in  the 
grate  a  huge  wood  fire  burning.  And  by  a  table  in 
front  of  this  there  sat,  as  he  saw  by  the  light  of  a  large 
clear  lamp,  two  women,  one  almost  old  and  the  other 
young. 

Coming  in  out  of  the -sombre  hall,  the  light  of  the 
fire  and  lamp  dazzled  him  so  that  at  first  he  could  see 
nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  they  were  two  female 
forms  which  rose  at  his  entrance ;  then,  while  he  ad- 
vanced to  meet  them  as  they  came  forward,  he  heard  a 
soft  voice  say : 

"  Monsieur  St.  Georges  visits  on  behalf  of  his  Maj- 
esty. He  is  very  welcome. — Monsieur,  let  me  present 
you  to  my  daughter,  Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure." 

In  the  instant  that  he  was  bowing  with  easy  grace 
before  them,  and  while  they  in  their  turn  observed  the 
tall,  gallant  form  of  the  soldier,  his  long,  curling  hair, 
long  mustaches,  and  somewhat  weather-worn  riding 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  87 

dress,  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  thought: 
"  Can  this  be  the  she-wolf  who  sends  her  whelp  forth 
to  midnight  murder?  Can  she  have  had  a  hand  in 
that  foul  attack?"  Then,  aloud,  he  murmured  his 
thanks  for  her  reception,  and  looking  his  hostess 
straight  in  the  face,  observed  the  features  of  the  woman 
who,  as  he  believed,  his  father"  had  once  loved. 

Her  hair  was  almost  white  now,  yet  rich  and  beauti- 
ful, and  still  with  some  of  the  original  brown  left  in  it, 
her  eyes  soft  and  clear,  her  features  delicate  and  telling 
plainly  of  the  beauty  that  had  been.  And  as  he  gazed 
at  the  daughter  standing  by  her  side — a  girl  but  just 
entering  womanhood,  a  girl  whose  hazel  eyes  looked  out 
at  him  from  under  her  dark  lashes,  and  whose  colour 
came  and  went  as  she  returned  his  bow  with  stately 
courtesy — he  knew  what  her  mother  had  once  been  like. 

"  Monsieur  has  ridden  far,"  the  marquise  said,  as  she 
motioned  him  to  a  seat  by  the  fire  where  they  had  been 
sitting,  and  regarded  him  with  interest;  "has  ctime  a 
long,  perhaps  perilous,  voyage  from  Pontarlier?  The 
roads  at  this  season  are  none  too  safe,  they  say,  in  spite 
of  the  Marechausse.  Yet,  monsieur  is  a  soldier." 

St.  Georges  bowed  in  reply — though  swift  as  light- 
ning there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  thought  that 
the  words  "perilous  voyage"  showed  that  she  knew, 
doubtless,  of  one  great  danger  to  which  he  had  been 
exposed.  Then  he  replied  : 

"As  madame  remarks,  it  was  long  and  has  been 
somewhat  eventful.  Yet,  as  I  have  said,  I  ride  in  the 
king's  service.  It  may  be  that  you  know  that,  ma- 
dame  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  she  replied,  "  that  you  were  to  call  at  the 
Bishop  of  Lodeve's — ce  PJielypeaux! — and  take  from 
him  one  word  to  the  king,  or  to  Louvois.  Also  that 


88  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

you  are  charged  to  take  another  word,  perhaps  a  simi- 
lar one,  from  me.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Kemembering  what  the  bishop  had  said,  recalling 
his  utterance — "  There  is  no  need  of  secrecy ;  you  may 
frankly  tell  her " — he  answered  :  "  It  is  so,  madame. 
The  bishop  has  sent  the  word.  It  may  be  that  you  will 
eend  the  same  by  me  when  I  ride  forth  to-morrow." 

Her  glance  rested  on  him  ere  she  answered.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  reply  depended  on  some  unknown, 
subtle  something  pertaining  to  his  mind  or  face  which 
she  was  endeavouring  to  decipher  or  understand.  Then 
she  let  her  eyes  fall  upon  the  logs  burning  in  the  grate, 
and  said : 

"  How  can  I  say  ?  You  do  not  as  yet  tell  me  the 
word  the  bishop  has  sent." 

Again  he  recalled  Phelypeaux's  remark  that  there 
was  no  need  of  secrecy.  Therefore  he  answered,  "  The 
word  that  the  bishop  has  sent,  madame,  is '  Yes.' " 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  and  again  her  glance  scanned  his 
face  half  eagerly,  half  wistfully,  while  now  he  noticed 
that  Mademoiselle  de  Koquemaure's  hand  stole  into  hers 
as  she  sat  by  her  side. 

"  Ah !    It  is  as  I  thought :  the  word  is '  Yes.' " 

"  That  is  it,  madame." 

"  Come,"  she  said,  moving  from  her  seat  as  the  old 
servitor  appeared  in  the  shadows  far  down  the  room — 
"  come ;  supper  is  served.  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  I  pray 
you  give  me  your  arm  ";  and  she  placed  her  hand  on  it, 
and,  her  daughter  following,  went  with  him  to  the  door. 
Then,  ere  they  reached  the  corridor,  she,  looking .  up 
into  his  face,  said  quietly : 

"  It  would  be  best — I — I — have  not  the  same  word 
to  send  as  Phelypeaux.  The  one  that  I  shall  ask  you  to 
carry  will  be '  No.' " 


THE  MARQUISE  TELLS  A  STORY.  89 

CHAPTER  XL 

THE   MARQUISE   TELLS   A   STORY. 

IT  was  a  vastly  different  repast  from  that  of  the 
Bishop  of  Lodeve's  which  was  offered  to  St.  Georges, 
although  the  difference  consisted  more,  perhaps,  in  the 
manner  of  cooking  and  serving  than  in  aught  else.  The 
wine,  which  was  excellent — though  no  better  than  that 
last  bottle  from  the  old  Clos — did  not  come  in  at  the 
end,  but  cheered  the  fasting  and  wayworn  man  from  the 
commencement ;  the  viands  were  in  good  condition  and 
properly  prepared  ;  the  soup  was  not  dishwater,  but  of 
a  good,  sufficient  quality.  Moreover,  here,  as  in  the 
great  salon,  a  cheerful  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  instead 
of  the  spluttering,  snow-soaked  logs  that  had  hissed  and 
smoked  in  Phelypeaux's  house.  Also,  he  had  for  com- 
pany two  women,  each  beautiful  according  to  her  time 
of  life — women  soft,  gentle,  and  well  bred — instead  of 
the  cynical  bishop  of  whom  all  France  told  strange  tales. 

Sitting  there,  his  eyes  resting  sometimes  on  the  bud- 
ding loveliness  of  Aurelie  de  Roquemaure,  sometimes  on 
the  mellowed  sweetness  of  the  face  of  the  marquise,  St. 
Georges  forced  himself  to  discard  from  his  mind  the 
thought  which  he  had  now  come  to  deem  unworthy — 
the  thought  that  treachery  lurked  in  their  bosoms 
against  him — that,  though  the  present  marquis  might 
be  the  man  who  had  led  the  foul  and  despicable  attack 
on  him  in  the  graveyard  at  Aignay-le-Duc,  they  had  had 
part  or  share  in  it.  For,  he  told  himself,  to  believe  this 
was  to  believe  that  there  was  no  faith  nor  honesty  in 
womankind. 

Yet  one  thing,  at  the  commencement  of  the  meal, 
7 


90  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

and  when  the  old  servant  and  another  had  withdrawn 
from  the  room,  had  almost  served  to  keep  his  suspicions 
alive.  The  marquise — as  far  as  a  woman  of  rank  and 
high  breeding  might  do  so — had  asked  him  many  ques- 
tions about  himself,  while  Aurelie,  following  the  rigid- 
ness  which  prevailed  in  French  life  of  the  time,  sat 
by,  a  silent  listener,  scarce  joining  in  the  conversation 
at  all. 

And  St.  Georges,  moved  perhaps  by  the  company  in 
which  he  found  himself,  and,  soldier-like,  scorning  to 
conceal  any  part  of  his  history  except  that  which  he 
deemed  absolutely  necessary — he  making  no  reference 
whatever  to  the  name  of  De  Vannes — told  them  much  of 
his  existence.  His  career  in  Holland  until  the  peace ; 
his  lonely  life  in  garrison ;  his  marriage  with  a  young 
girl,  a  daughter  of  the  middle  classes;  her  death,  and 
the  little  child  she  had  left  to  his  care,  were  all  touched 
upon  by  him  and  listened  to  attentively — indeed,  ab- 
sorbingly. And  so,  at  last,  he  came  to  the  summons  to 
Paris,  to  his  setting  forth,  to  his  stay  at  Dijon,  and  the 
attack  made  upon  him  and  Boussac. 

To  both  women  this  portion  of  his  narrative  caused 
great  excitement.  For,  stately  as  the  marquise  was,  en- 
vironed, so  to  speak,  by  all  the  dignity  of  the  haute 
noblesse  of  the  days  of  the  Great  King,  she  could  not 
prevent  her  agitation  from  being  apparent  to  him.  Her 
white,  jewelled  hand  quivered  as  she  raised  it  to  her 
breast ;  her  eyes  sparkled  as  they  might  have  sparkled 
when  she  was  her  daughter's  age ;  while,  as  for  that 
daughter,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  rapid  breath- 
ing, her  colour  came  and  went — once  she  was  as  pale 
as  death,  the  next  moment  her  face  suffused. 

"  The  cowards ! "  exclaimed  the  marquise ;  "  the 
base,  cowardly  dogs,  to  attack  two  men  thus,  and  one 


THE  MARQUISE  TELLS  A  STORY.  '91 

hampered  with  a  defenceless  child!  Quel  tour  de 
Idche  !  Oh !  sir,  I  would  to  God  your  brand  or  that  of 
your  brave  companion  had  struck  the  poltroon,  the 
craven  who  sheltered  himself  behind  his  visor,  his 
death  blow!  I  would  to  God  one  of  your  swords  had 
found  out  his  heart  as  they  found  out  the  hearts  of  his 
mercenaries ! " 

The  sympathy  of  this  graceful  woman — sympathy 
that  roused  her  from  the  well-bred  calmness  which  was 
her  natural  state,  to  one  of  almost  fury — earned  the  deep- 
est respect  and  gratitude  of  St.  Georges ;  yet  he  looked  at 
her  almost  with  amazement  as  he  bowed  and  murmured 
some  words  of  appreciation.  For  there  was  no  acting 
here,  he  knew;  yet  she  was  De  Roquemaure's  step- 
mother, the  kinswoman  of  the  man  whom  he  believed  to 
be  his  and  his  child's  attempted  assassin  ! 

And  Aurelie  de  Roquemaure,  too-^what  of  her  ?  A 
glance  from  under  his  eyes  showed  him  that  still  the 
beauteous  face  was  agitated  as  it  had  been  before,  that 
all  which  her  mother  had  said  was  reechoed  by  her. 

Again  the  marquise  spoke,  though  now  she  rose  from 
the  table  as -she  did  so. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  "  never  rest  until  that  man  and  you 
stand  face  to  face,  point  to  point ;  since,  until  that  hap- 
pens, your  child's  life  will  not  be  safe.  For  you,  a  man, 
a  soldier,  it  matters  not — is  best,  indeed,  that  you  should 
meet  him  and  end  his  miserable  existence  forever.  I 
pray  you  may  do  ere  long.  And,  when  you  do  meet 
him,  slay  him  like  a  dog !  It  is  the  only  way." 

Still  astonished,  almost  appalled,  by  her  vehemence, 
St.  Georges  took  the  hand  she  extended  him  and  bent 
over  it,  and  next,  that  of  her  daughter,  ere  the  two 
passed  out  of  the  room. 

"  Forgive,"  said  the  marquise,  "  that  I  should  feel  so 


92  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

strongly.  I — I — have  a  child  myself."  Then,  after  a 
pause,  and  turning  round  as  she  reached  the  corridor, 
she  added :  "  If  we  do  not  meet  to-morrow  ere  you 
return  to  the  city  to  fetch  your  child,  remember,  sir, 
I  pray  you,  that  my  answer  to  the  king  or  his  minister 
is  precisely  different  from  that  of  the  bishop.  It  is 
'No.'" 

"  I  will  remember,  madame." 

Then,  with  a  last  glance  from  each,  both  were  gone. 
And  St.  Georges,  standing  in  front  of  the  great  fire- 
place waiting  for  the  old  servitor  to  come  and  escort 
him  to  his  room,  was  more  overwhelmed  with  amaze- 
ment than  he  had  been  at  aught  which  had  occurred 
since  he  set  out  from  Pontarlier. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  he  whispered  to  himself. 
"  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

In  a  room  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  corridor  from 
that  where  the  apartment  was  situated  which  had  been 
bestowed  on  St.  Georges,  the  mother  and  daughter  sat. 
It  was  the  sleeping-room  of  madame  la  marquise,  large, 
vast,  and  sombre — save  that  here,  too,  a  fire  burnt  in 
the  grate,  and  that  there  were  many  candles  alight  in 
the  sconces  set  about  the  room. 

And  the  marquise,  lying  back  in  her  deep  fauteuil 
before  the  fire,  her  face  white  and  drawn,  and  with  tears 
upon  her  cheeks,  was  speaking  to  her  daughter  who 
knelt  by  her  side. 

"  The  wolf  ! "  she  said,  "  the  wolf !  How  know  it? 
How  find  out?  God!  I  thought  that  I  alone,  of  all 
living  people,  knew,  until  I  divulged  my  story  to  you, 
until  I  wrote  to  Louis  asking  him  to  do  justice  to 
a  much-wronged  man.  Who — who  has  betrayed  my 
confidence?  Not  the  king,  surely.  Oh!  not  he,  not 


THE  MARQUISE  TELLS  A  STORY.  93 

he !  Nay,  more,  I  doubt  if  the  letter  ever  reached  his 
hands." 

"Mother,"  Aurelie  said,  as  she  stroked  her  hand, 
"  there  must  be  some  other  who  knows." 

"  There  was  no  living  soul  on  earth.  Listen,  even 
you  do  not  know  all." 

The  girl  seated  herself  against  her  mother's  knee 
and  gazed  up  into  her  face.  Then  she  whispered  :  "  Tell 
me  all  now,  mother.  From  to-night  let  me  understand 
exactly  with  what  he  is  encompassed.  Tell  me,  I  beg." 

"  You  know,"  the  marquise  said,  "  for  I  have  told 
you  often,  that  the  Due  de  Vannes  and  I  loved  each 
other  when  we  were  young — yet  that  we  never  married. 
No  matter  for  the  reason  now — it  was  my  fault !  Let 
that  suffice.  And  we  parted — he  to  go  his  way,  I  mine. 
Then,  some  years  later,  not  many  it  is  true,  but  still 
long  enough  for  us  to  have  forgotten  what  had  separated 
us,  we  met  again,  and  once  more  he  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife,  to  renew  the  love  vows  we  once  had  made.  But 
it  was  then  impossible.  I  was  affianced  to  your  father — 
the  day  was  fixed,  and  I  had  come  to  admire  him,  to 
respect  him ;  in  no  case  would  I  have  gone  back  from 
my  plighted  word.  So  again  we  parted  to  meet  only 
once  more  in  life." 

The  girl  touched  her  hand — perhaps — who  knows  ? 
— in  admiration  of  her  mother's  strength  in  keeping 
her  vow  to  the  man  who  was  not  her  first  love  and  in 
discarding  the  man  who  was.  And  the  marquise  con- 
tinued : 

"  It  was  one  night  a  few  weeks  before  he  set  out  to 
join  Turenne  in  the  Palatinate.  A  great  fete  was  given 
by  Louis  to  celebrate  his  birthday  at  St.-Germain-en- 
Laye,  his  birthplace,  and  it  was  there  we  met  again. 
Presently,  when  both  of  us  were  able  to  escape  from  the 


94  IN  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

great  crowd  of  courtiers,  marshals,  and  ministers  who 
surrounded  the  king,  he  told  me  that  he  was  glad  he 
had  met  me  once  more — that  he  wished  to  confide  a 
secret  to  me  if  I  would  hear  it,  a  charge  if  I  would 
accept  it.  At  first  I  hesitated,  then — when  I  found 
it  would  not  thrust  against  your  father's  honour" 
— again  the  girl  stroked  her  mother's  hand — "  I  told 
him  he  might  confide  in  me.  Aurelie,  he  told  me  that, 
embittered  by  having  lost  me,  he  had  married  in  private 
an  English  lady,  daughter  of  a  refugee,  that  he  had 
learned  to  love  her,  and  that  death  had  parted  them  after 
a  few  years  of  marriage.  Also,  he  told  me,  she  left  him 
a  son,  whom  he  had  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  the 
position  that  must  be  his,  but  that — should  he  return 
from  the  Palatinate — he  meant  to  acknowledge  him. 
He  never  did  return,  and  his  son  has  never  been  ac- 
knowledged." 

"  Why,  my  mother?  "  asked  Aurelie,  with  an  upward 
glance.  "Why?" 

"Nay,  child,"  the  marquise  replied.  "Think  no 
evil  of  me.  No  base  thoughts  entered  my  mind.  No 
remembrance  that  his  son  stood  in  the  way  of  your  half- 
brother's  inheritance — he  and  your  father  being  osten- 
sibly De  Vannes's  heir.  No  !  no !  no  !  But  in  that 
hurried  interval  both  he  and  I  had  made  one  fatal  slip 
— had  committed  one  hideous  act  of  forgetfulness.  He 
had  forgotten  to  tell  me — I  to  ask — where  this  son  was, 
and  in  what  name  he  was  known." 

The  girl  dropped  her  hands  with  a  despairing  ac- 
tion into  her  lap;  then  a  moment  later  she  turned 
the  soft  hazel  eyes  up  again  toward  her  mother's  face 
and '  said :  "  Yet  now  you  know !  You  have  found 
out!" 

"  Yes,   I  have   found  out.     That  son   is  the   man 


THE  MARQUISE  TELLS   A  STORY.  95 

who  sleeps  beneath  our  roof  to-night — Lieutenant  St. 
Georges." 

"But  how?    How?    How?" 

"Again,  listen.  For  years  I  sought  to  find  him, 
made  inquiries  in  every  quarter  I  could  think  of,  asked 
— quietly  and  cautiously — of  all  who  might  by  chance 
possess  any  information.  Then,  at  last,  it  came — from 
the  quarter  least  to  be  imagined.  From  your  half- 
brother." 

"Raoul?" 

"Ay,  Raoul,  your  father's  heir — also  heir  to  the 
fortune  of  the  Due  de  Vannes,  as  all  the  world  thought 
and  still  thinks.  He  came  to  me  one  day — three 
months  ago — when  he  had  been  privately  to  Paris;  for 
what  reason  I  know  not,  although  I  know  that  his  visit 
was  a  secret  one,  since  he  had  not  been  presented  to  the 
king.  He  came  in,  I  say,  and  standing  before  me,  he 
said,  '  Madame,  who  is  Monsieur  St.  Georges  ? '  I  an- 
swered that  I  had  never  heard  of  the  gentleman  be- 
fore, to  which  he  replied  :  *  'Tis  strange,  madame.  He 
is  an  officer  of  the  Regiment  de  Nivernois.  And  his 
commission  was  given  him  by  the  king  at  the  re- 
quest of  your  late — friend,  shall  I  say? — the  Due  de 
Vannes ! ' 

"  Aurelie,  I  fell  to  trembling  then,  for  I  thought  to 
myself,  '  I  have  found  his  son.'  De  Vannes  had  told 
me  that  son  was  being  educated  for  his  own  profession 
of  arms — nay,  more,  that  he  sought  for  him  a  commis- 
sion from  the  king.  Meanwhile,  Raoul  was  watching 
me  carefully,  so  that  I  disguised  as  best  I  could  my 
agitation,  while  I  replied :  '  It  seems  to  me  you  need 
not  to  demand  information  of  me.  You  know  of 
Monsieur  St.  Georges's  existence — of  the  calling  he 
follows.  On  my  part,  I  have  never  heard  of  him  be- 


96  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

fore ! '  *  Nor  perhaps,'  he  replied, '  ever  will  again ! '  and 
with  that  he  left  me." 

"  It  must  be  the  man,"  Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure 
murmured.  "  It  must  be  he." 

"  It  is  he,"  the  marquise  replied  emphatically.  "  It 
is  he.  As  he  stood  before  me  to-night  I  saw  his  father 
in  his  eyes,  in  his  glance — nay,  in  his  bearing.  That 
man  is  the  son  of  De  Vannes — is  the  De  Vannes  him- 
self. And  if  more  proof  was  wanted,  is  it  not  forth- 
coming when  we  have  learned  that  not  only  his  life,  but 
the  life  of  his  child,  is  thrust  against  ?  His  father  died 
without  a  will,  without  naming  him ;  your  father  was 
therefore  the  heir,  and — after  him — your  brother  llaoul. 
In  another  year,  when  he  is  thirty,  De  Vannes's  wealth 
is  his,  if — if,"  and  her  eyes  glistened  as  she  spoke,  "  no 
direct  heir  bars  the  way.  You  understand?" 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  said  slowly.    "  Yes,  I  understand." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LOST. 

A  CONSIDERABLE  hubbub  outside  the  manoir — the 
crying  of  a  woman,  and  the  voices  of  various  men  all 
talking  together — aroused  St.  Georges  from  his  sleep  as 
the  wintry  dawn  broke  through  the  fogs  and  mists  of 
the  night. 

"  Fichte"  he  heard  the  old  servitor  say,  "  you  are  a 
fool,  my  girl,  to  come  here  and  thrust  your  head  in  the 
lion's  jaws.  Better  make  off  another  way ;  he  will  kill 
you,  I  warrant,  when  he  hears  how  you  have  kept  your 
promise." 


LOST.  97 

"  Let  him,"  he  heard  next  a  woman's  voice  reply,  a 
voice  all  broken  and  rendered  indistinct  by  her  tears  and 
sobs,  "let  him.  0  mon  Dieu!  "  she  wailed,  "have  pity 
on  me !  I  would  have  shielded  the  little  thing  with  my 
life.  I  left  it  but  a  few,  nay,  not  ten,  minutes,  and  then 
— then  it  was  gone.  Oh,  pity  me,  pity  me,  mon  Dieu  !  " 

With  a  bound  St.  Georges  had  flung  himself  from 
out  of  his  bed,  and  was  hastily  putting  on  his  clothes. 
For  the  words  of  the  weeping  woman  in  the  roadway,  as 
they  rose  to  his  ears — above  all,  the  voice  which  he  rec- 
ognised— told  him  the  worst.  The  child,  his  child,  was 
missing;  the  woman  below  was  the  one  to  whom  he 
had  confided  Dorine  overnight. 

Huddling  on  his  garments,  therefore,  while  still  he 
heard  arising  the  voices  from  a  short  distance  below  him 
(for  the  first  floor  of  the  manoir,  on  which  his  room 
was  situated,  was  not  more  than  twelve  or  fourteen  feet 
from  the  ground)  and  the  girl's  sobs  and  weeping  as 
she  exclaimed,  "  Not  more  than  ten  minutes  did  I  leave 
it  alone,  not  more,  while  I  regarded  the  troops  coming 
in,"  he  descended  rapidly  to  the  great  hall  below.  He 
met  no  one  on  his  way  as  he  did  so — doubtless,  neither 
the  marquise  nor  her  daughter  were  yet  risen — and 
finding  the  door  in  the  tourelle  with  little  difficulty,  he 
emerged  into  the  roadway. 

Standing  in  it  were  those  two  whose  voices  he  had 
already  heard — the  old  servitor  and  the  girl  from  the 
inn  in  Troyes — and  by  them  was  the  youth,  Gaston,  his 
arm  this  morning  being  bound  up  in  a  sling,  as  though 
he  had  met  with  some  hurt.  He  was  gazing  silently  at 
the  girl  as  she  sobbed  and  wept  before  the  old  man, 
listening  evidently  with  interest  to  all  she  said,  and 
with  a  look  of  sympathy  on  his  face  for  the  evident 
distress  of  mind  she  was  in. 


98  IN  THE   DAY   OF  ADVERSITY. 

But  now,  as  St.  Georges  appeared  before  her,  his  faco 
stern  and  fierce — though  already  there  was  on  it  a  look 
of  misery  and  foreboding — she  flung  herself  upon  her 
knees  before  him  in  the  hard,  frost-bound  road,  and  lift- 
ing up  her  clasped  hands  she  cried  : 

"Oh,  monsieur,  forgive  me,  pardon  me!  I  did  but 
leave  the  child  for  ten  moments,  and " 

"And,"  said  St.  Georges,  his  face  growing  almost 
darker  than  before,  "  it  is  stolen,  or  dead  !  Is  that  what 
you  have  come  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  alas  ! "  she  moaned,  "  that  it  should  be 
so.  Stolen,  not  dead,  thank  God.  Oh,  monsieur,"  and 
again  the  coarse,  hard-working  hands  were  clasped  and 
lifted  up  before  his  face,  "  ayez  pitie^je " 

"  Be  brief,"  the  chevau-Uger  interrupted,  taking  no 
heed  of  her  waitings,  while  the  old  and  young  man 
started  at  the  misery  revealed  by  the  changed  tones  of 
his  voice.  "  Be  brief.  I  confided  my  child  to  you,  and 
you  have  failed  in  your  trust.  Tell  me  how.  Then  I 
may  know  how  to  act.  Proceed." 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  the  poor  creature  said,  wondering 
that,  ere  now,  he  had  not  torn  her  to  pieces  or  thrust 
his  sword  through  her,  as  would  likely  enough  have 
been  done  by  many  of  her  own  kind  under  a  similar 
breach  of  faith — "oh,  monsieur,  my  heart  is  broken, 
my  heart " 

"  No  matter  for  your  heart,"  St.  Georges  interrupted 
her  peremptorily  again  ;  "  tell  your  story  at  once.  At 
once,  I  say  ! "  And  again  the  two  standing  by  wondered 
that  he  could  master  himself  so,  in  spite  of  his  grief ; 
while  the  girl,  seeing  that  she  had  best  obey  him,  told 
with  many  sobs,  which  still  she  could  not  repress,  what 
had  happened. 

It  was  in  the  early  morning,  she  said,  and  she  and 


LOST.  99 

the  little  thing  had  slept  warm  and  peacefully  together 
— oh,  so  peacefully  ! — and  the  time  had  come  for  her  to 
arise ;  the  hostler  had  come  to  knock  on  her  door,  for  she 
slept  heavily.  Then  he  told  her,  as  he  stood  outside, 
that  a  troop  of  the  Vicomte  d'Arpajou's  regiment  was 
come  in  and  seeking  billets  in  the  town;  and  she, 
because  she  was  une  malheureuse,  and  also  because  she 
had  a  cousin  who  rode  in  the  ranks,  got  up  and  ran 
downstairs  to  get  news  of  him.  For  his  mother  had 
heard  nothing  of  him  for  many  months;  they  were 
anxious — oh,  so  anxious !  But  it  was  not  his  troop,  and 
so,  gleaning  no  news,  she  had  returned  to  her  bedroom, 
meaning  to  finish  her  dressing  and  to  prepare  the  child. 
And  then,  she  went  on,  sobbing  again,  and  with  more 
wringings  of  her  hands — and  then,  oh !  horror,  she 
found  the  bed  empty  and  the  child  gone.  Gone ! 
Gone !  Gone  !  Oh,  it  was  terrible !  She  aroused  the 
other  servants  with  her  screams;  high  and  low  they 
sought  for  it — it  might  have  crept  even  from  the  bed — 
but,  no  !  it  was  gone.  And  after  half  an  hour's  further 
search,  she,  feeling  demented,  had  told  her  master  all 
and  how  she  had  taken  charge  of  the  child,  and  had 
begged  him  to  let  her  come  to  the  manoir  to  see  its 
father.  Perhaps,  it  might  yet  be  found,  might,  because 
God  Avas  good,  have  been  found  since  she  had  come  away. 
Who  knew  ?  Oh  !  she  prayed  it  might  be  so — on  her 
knees  she  prayed 

"  My  horse  ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  turning  to  tho 
younger  man,  Gaston,  still  standing  close  by,  "my 
horse,  I  beg  of  you !  Lose  no  time  in  saddling  it.  I 
must  go  back  to  the  city  at  once."  And  turning  his 
head  away  from  them  he  murmured  :  "  My  child  !  My 
little  lonely  child !  Oh,  my  child ! " 

They  heard  his  moan,  those  three  standing  there — 


100  IN  THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

for  now  the  woman  had  risen  to  her  feet — and  they 
pitied  him.  The  old  man  shook  his  head  sadly ;  he  was 
a  father  and  a  grandfather  himself;  the  girl  sobbed 
afresh,  and  Gaston  moved  off  at  once  to  obey  his  behest. 
"  My  arm  is  injured,"  he  stammered,  seeing  that  the 
soldier's  eye  was  on  it  now ;  "  one  of  the  horses  kicked  it 
last  night  in  the  stable;  but — but — I  can  still  saddle 
your  animal.  In  an  instant,  monsieur,  in  an  instant," 
and  he  moved  away. 

Seeing  that  he  was  in  pain — indeed,  the  lad's  face 
was  bloodless  and  also  drawn  with  suffering — and  being 
himself  devoured  with  eagerness  to  return  to  the  city 
and  seek  for  his  child,  St.  Georges  followed  him  through 
the  courtyard  to  where  the  stables  were.  And  then, 
noticing  that  Gaston  could  not  use  his  wounded  arm  at 
all,  he  saddled  his  animal  with  his  own  hands  while  the 
young  man  stood  by  helpless,  or  only  able  to  render  him 
the  slightest  assistance  with  his  uninjured  arm.  And 
when  this  was  done  he  led  the  horse  forth  to  the  front 
of  the  manoir  and  mounted  it. 

"  There  is  no  time  for  me  to  pay  my  respects  to 
madame  la  marquise,"  he  said  to  the  servitor — "she 
will  understand  my  lack  of  courtesy.  Yet,  since  it  is 
impossible  I  can  continue  my  journey  to  Paris — even 
the  king's  commands  must  wait  now  ! — I  will  endeavour 
not  to  quit  Troyes  without  bidding  her  farewell.  Will 
you  tell  her  that,  my  friend  ?  " 

The  old  man  said  he  would — that  he  knew  madame 
would  understand  and  sympathize  with  him — and — and 
— but  ere  he  could  finish  whatever  he  intended  to  say, 
St.  Georges  had  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  was  speed- 
ing back  to  Troyes,  while  following  him  along  the  road 
on  foot  went  the  unfortunate  servant  from  the  inn,  still 
weeping  and  bemoaning. 


LOST.  101 

The  hostler  was  standing  in  the  gateway  of  the  au- 
berge  as  he  rode  in,  his  horse  already  sweating  and  with 
foam  about  its  mouth  from  the  pace  it  had  come ;  and 
throwing  himself  off  it  St.  Georges  advanced  to  the  man 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  any  news  of  his  missing 
child. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied.  "  Nay.  No  news.  Mon  Dieu  I 
I  know  not  who  could  have  stolen  it.  'Tis  marvellous. 
'Twas  none  of  D'Arpajou's  troop,  to  be  sure.  And 
there  were  no  others." 

"  None  lurking  about  the  inn  last  night — none 
sleeping  here  who  might  have  stolen  into  the  girl's 
room  when  she  quitted  it?  Oh!  man,  I  tell  you,"  he 
cried,  almost  beside  himself  with  grief,  "  there  are  those 
who  would  have  tracked  it  across  France  to  get  at  it ! " 
And  then,  overcome  with  remorse  at  having  left  the 
child  in  any  other  custody  but  his  own,  though  he 
had  thought  it  was  for  the  best  when  he  did  so,  he  mur- 
mured : k'  Why,  why,  did  I  not  keep  it  with  me  ?  My 
arm  sheltered  it  when  the  attack  was  made  at  Aignay- 
le-Duc ;  no  worse  than  that  could  have  befallen  it." 

"None  lurking  about,"  the  man  repeated,  looking 
up  at  the  great  soldier  while  he  chewed  a  straw.  "  None 
lurking  about.  Mon  Dieu!  why  did  I  not  think  of 
that  before  ?  " 

"  There  was  one !  "  St.  Georges  exclaimed,  "  there 
was  one,  then  ?  You  saw  some  man — I  know  it ;  I  see 
it  in  your  face.  For  God's  sake,  answer  me !  Who  ? 
Who  was  it?" 

But  the  hostler  was  a  slow  man — one  whose  mind 
moved  cumbrously,  and  again  he  muttered  to  himself : 
"  No !  No,  it  could  not  be  he.  It " 

"Could  not  be  whom?  Oh,  do  not  torture  me! 
Tell  me!  Tell  me!" 


102  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  There  was  one,"  the  other  replied,  "  who  rode  in 
last  night,  seeking  a  bed  for  himself  and  a  stall  for  his 
horse.  Yet  he  could  have  neither  here.  We  were  full, 
and  we  knew  too  that  D'Arpajou's  horse  were  on  the 
road.  So  we  sent  him  away  to  the  Cheval  Rouge,  yet 
I  saw  him  again  late  at  night  in  the  yard,  and,  asking 
him  his  business,  he  said  that  he  had  lost  his  glove  when 
here— 

"  My  God  ! "  St.  Georges  exclaimed,  more  to  himself 
than  the  man.  "  Was  it  De  Roquemaure  ?  " 

"  De  Roquemaure ! "  the  other  exclaimed.  "  De 
Roquemaure !  Par  hasard,  does  monsieur  mean  the 
young  marquis  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  know  him — must  know  him,  since 
his  mother's  manoir  is  so  near  here.  Answer  me,"  and 
in  his  fervour  he  grasped  the  man's  arm  firmly,  "  was 
it  he?" 

The  hostler  wrenched  his  arm  away  from  the  sol- 
dier's nervous  grasp ;  then  he  answered  emphatically — 
scornfully  indeed  :  "  Was  it  he  ?  He !  De  Roque- 
maure? Mon  Dieu,  no  !  Not  he,  indeed ! " 

"You  know  him?" 

"  Know  him  9  Yes.  And  hate  him.  A  wild  beast, 
un  sauvage.  See  here,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  face,  on 
which  was  a  long,  discoloured  stain  or  bruise,"  he  gave  me 
that  a  week  or  so  ago,  as  he  rode  out  of  the  inn,  because 
I  had  not  brought  his  horse  quickly  enough  to  please 
him.  Know  him?  Oh,  yes,  I  know  him.  And  some 
day,  great  and  strong  and  powerful  seigneur  as  he  is,  he 
shall  know  me.  The  seigneurs  do  not  lord  it  over  us 
always.  We  shall  see  !  " 

"  Not  De  Roquemaure,"  St.  Georges  mused  aloud. 
"  Not  De  Roquemaure.  Great  God  !  have  we  more  ene- 
mies than  one?  Into  whose  hands  has  my  little  babe 


LOST.  103 

fallen,  then  ?  "     And  again  he  murmured  to  himself, 
"  Not  De  Roquemaure  ! " 

"  No,  not  De  Roquemaure,"  the  man  replied,  over- 
hearing him.  "  Nor  one  like  him.  Instead,  a  stranger 
to  the  town — a  sour,  dark-visaged  man,  elderly.  None 
too  well  clad  nor  mounted  either,  and  both  he  and  his 
beast  well  spent  as  though  with  long  travel." 

"  Who  could  it  be  ?  "  St.  Georges  muttered.  "  Who  ?  " 
Yet,  think  as  he  might,  no  light  broke  in  upon  him. 
But,  if  this  man  was  indeed  the  one  who  had  kidnapped 
his  child,  he  felt  sure  of  one  thing :  he  was  an  agent  of 
De  Roquemaure's.  It  was  in  the  latter's  light  alone 
that  he  arid  Dorine  stood  ! 

Again  he  questioned  the  hostler,  but  all  that  he 
could  glean  was  that  "the  lurking  traveller,  the  fellow 
who,  after  being  refused  the  hospitality  of  the  inn,  was 
yet  prowling  about  the  stables  at  midnight,  in  search — 
if  his  story  were  true — of  a  worthless  glove,  was  un- 
doubtedly a  stranger  in  the  city.  Than  that  the  hostler 
could  tell  him  no  more. 

"  But,"  said  the  latter,  "  why  not  inquire  at  the 
Cheval  Rouge  9 — there,  if  anywhere,  monsieur  may  glean 
tidings  of  him." 

Clutching  at  the  suggestion  he  went  toward  that 
inn,  which  was  but  in  the  next  street — a  place  that 
turned  out  to  be  a  frowsy,  dirty  house,  frequented  by 
the  humblest  travellers  only.  And  here,  after  describ- 
ing the  man  he  sought,  he  gathered  the  following  facts, 
the  stranger's  actions  since  he  had  put  up  at  the  Cheval 
Rouge  being  indeed  enough  to  set  the  tongues  of  the 
landlord  and  landlady  wagging  directly  they  were  ques- 
tioned about  him  : 

For,  strange  circumstances  in  connection  with  a 
traveller  who  appeared  to  be,  as  he  stated  he  was,  dead 


104  IN   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

beaten  with  a  long  journey — whence  he  had  not  said — 
he  had  not  been  in  all  night.  His  bed  was  still  unslept 
in,  his  horse  still  in  the  stable.  He  had  supped  at  the 
ordinary  with  one  or  two  others,  and  the  landlady  no- 
ticed he  had  eaten  ravenously,  as  one  might  who  had 
fasted  long;  had  drunk  copiously,  too,  of  petite  Bour- 
gogne,  and  had  then  gone  out,  saying  he  would  be  back 
shortly.  Also,  one  thing  was  curious.  "Mon  Dicu  I " 
the  woman  said,  "  it  was  remarkable  ! "  He  had  given 
orders  that,  after  his  horse  was  rubbed  down  and 
fed,  it  was  to  be  kept  saddled.  He  might,  he  said, 
have  to  set  forth  again  at  any  moment;  he  was  on 
important  business.  Yet  now,  the  woman  stated,  the 
horse  was  still  in  its  stall  and  the  man  had  never  re- 
turned. 

"  And  his  necessaries?"  St.  Georges  asked,  after  he 
had  told  the  people  of  the  house  as  much  as  he  deemed 
fit.  "What  of  them?  His  bags,  his  holsters,  where 
are  they?  Were  they  taken  to  his  room  or  left  with 
his  horse  ?  " 

"  Necessaries !  bags ! "  the  landlord  replied,  "  he  had 
none.  And  as  for  pistols — well — the  holsters  were  empty ; 
doubtless  he  had  them  about  him.  Perhaps  monsieur 
would  like  to  see  the  horse  ?  " 

Yes,  monsieur  would  like  to  see  the  horse,  and  was 
consequently  taken  to  the  stable  to  do  so.  It  was  a  poor 
beast,  not  groomed  properly  for  some  days ;  at  least,  it 
looked  poor  and  overstrained  now,  though  perhaps  a 
good  enough  animal  when  fresh.  It  showed  signs,  too, 
of  having  been  hard  ridden.  For  the  rest,  it  was  an 
ordinary  animal  of  the  most  usual  colour — a  dark 
chestnut. 

As  to  the  holsters,  they  were  empty,  and  in  none 
of  the  horse's  trappings  was  there  aught  to  give  any 


DE   ROQUEMAURE'S   WORK.  105 

hint  as   to   who  its    owner   was    or  whence    he    had 
come. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
DE  ROQCJEMAURE'S  WORK. 

THE  weather  had  changed,  the  frost  was  gone,  and 
the  night  was  hot  and  murky,  while  rain  was  falling,  as 
alone,  now,  alas !  St.  Georges  mounted  the  summit  of  a 
hill  that  rose  close  above  Troyes  on  the  road  to  Paris. 

He  had  commenced  his  journey  again. 

It  was  a  gruesome  spot  to  which  he  had  arrived  on 
this  night — an  elevation  that  surmounted  a  billowy 
country,  over  all  of  which,  in  the  summer  time,  the 
vines  and  corn  grew  in  rich  profusion,  but  which  now 
looked  bare  and  melancholy  as  the  southwest  wind 
swept  the  rain  clouds  over  it  beneath  a  watery  moon. 
To  the  left  of  him  there  swung,  upon  the  exact  crest  of 
the  hill,  a  corpse  in  chains,  with,  perched  upon  its 
mouldering  head,  a  crow — looking  for  the  eyes  long 
since  pecked  out  by  others  of  its  brood  !  To  the  right 
there  rose  a  little  wood,  through  which  the  wind  moaned 
and  sighed  onto  his  face,  bringing  with  it  warm  drops 
of  rain. 

Involuntarily  he  glanced  up  at  the  thing  swinging 
above  his  head — heartbroken  as  he  was  at  having  had 
to  leave  Troyes  with  his  child  still  unfound,  he  could 
not  refrain  from  doing  that ! — and  wondered  who  and 
what  the  malefactor  had  been  who  was  thus  exalted. 
And  as  he  lowered  his  eyes  from  the  ghastly  mass  of 
corruption,  he  saw  against  the  gibbet  a  thicker,  darker 
thing  than  the  gallows  tree  itself — a  thing  surmounted 
8 


106  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

by  a  white,  corpselike  face,  from  which  stared  a  pair  of 
large  gray  eyes  at  him — eyes  in  which,  as  the.  clouds 
scurried  by  beneath  the  moon,  the  moon  itself  shone 
dazzlingly,  lighting  them  up  and  showing  their  large 
pupils. 

The  horse  saw  them  too,  and  started  forward  a  pace 
or  so  until  reined  in  by  his  master's  hand,  and  then 
whimpered  and  quivered  all  over,  while  its  rider,  with 
his  own  flesh  creeping,  bent  over  his  saddle  and  peered 
toward  the  dark  form  surmounted  by  the  pallid  face 
and  glaring  eyes. 

"Who  in  Heaven's  name  are  you?"  St.  Georges 
whispered,  "  and  why  select  this  ghastly  spot  to  stand 
in  and  affright  passers-by?  What  are  you,  man  or 
woman?"  and  he  leaned  still  further  over  his  demi- 
pique  to  gaze  at  the  figure,  though  as  he  did  so  his  right 
hand  stole  to  his  sword  hilt. 

"A  woman,"  a  voice  answered.  "A  woman  who 
comes  here  to  weep  her  husband's  death.  He  " — and  she 
cast  the  staring  gray  eyes  upward  to  the  object  swing- 
ing with  each  gust  of  the  wind  in  its  chains — "  was  my 
husband.  Pass  on,  and  leave  me  with  his  murdered 
remains." 

"Murdered!  Rather,  poor  soul,  say  executed.  Mur- 
derers slay  not  thus." 

Slowly  the  figure  left  the  foot  of  the  gibbet  as  he 
spoke,  so  that  he  saw  she  was  a  tall  young  woman  of  the 
peasant  class,  clad  in  dark,  poor  clothes,  and  slowly  she 
advanced  the  few  yards  that  separated  them,  whereby 
he  could  observe  her  features  and  notice  more  plainly 
the  awful  whiteness  of  her  face. 

"  Murdered,  I  say  ! "  she  replied,  still  with  the  glare 
in  her  eyes.  "  Murdered  !  Wrongfully  accused,  foully 
tried,  falsely  condemned.  Done  to  death  wickedly  as  a 


DE  ROQUEMAURE'S   WORK.  107 

braconnier.  But  he  was  none — yet  there  he  swings. 
0  God !  that  life  can  be  so  easily  torn  from  us  by  the 
powerful ! " 

"  Who,  then,  has  done  this  deed  ? "  St.  Georges 
asked,  deeply  stirred  by  the  woman's  wild  sorrow,  per- 
haps also  by  the  gloomy  surroundings.  "  Who  can  do 
such  things  as  this,  even  though  powerful?  " 

"Who?"  she  replied.  "Who?  Who  but  one  in 
these  parts?  The  hound,  De  Eoquemaure  ! " 

"  De  Eoquemaure !  "  St.  Georges  exclaimed  with  a 
start  that  caused  his  trembling  horse  to  move  forward, 
thinking  that  he  had  pressed  its  flanks  to  urge  it  on, 
which  start  was  perfectly  perceptible  to  the  unhappy 
woman.  "  De  Roquemaure !  " 

"  You  know  him  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly,  bending  her 
face  toward  and  up  to  him  so  that  he  could  see  her  pale 
lips — lips,  indeed,  almost  as  pale  as  her  cheeks — "  you 
know  him?  " 

"  I  know  of  him,"  St.  Georges  replied. 

"And  hate  him,  perhaps,  as  I  do.  It  may  be,  would 
kill  him  as  I  would.  Is  it  so  ?  Answer  me  ?  " 

Carried  away  by  this  strange  encounter,  and  with  so 
strange  a  third  thing  near  them  as  that  above,  which 
once  had  life  as  they  had  still ;  carried  away,  too,  by  the 
woman's  vehemence — a  vehemence  which  caused  her,  a 
peasant,  to  speak  on  equal  terms  with  one  whose  dress 
and  accoutrements  showed  the  difference  between  them 
— he  answered  almost  in  a  whisper : 

"It  may  be,"  he  said,  bending  down  still  further  to 
her,  "that  I  shall  be  doomed  to  kill  him  some  day. 
May  be  that  he  has  merited  death  at  my  hands." 

"  You  hate  him  ?  " 

"  I  fear  I  have  but  too  just  cause  to  hate  him." 

"  As  all  do !    As  all !     He  lives,"  she  went  on,  "  but 


108  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

to  slay  and  injure  others  as  he  slew  and  injured  him," 
and  she  half  turned  her  head  and  cast  up  her  eyes  at 
the  miserable  relic  above  her.  Then  she  continued : 
"  Listen.  He  was  no  poacher,  no  thief.  But  I — I — his 
wife — was  unfortunate  enough  to  fall  under  the  other's 
notice — he  sought  me — you  understand? — and  he" — 
with  again  the  upward  glance — "resisted  his  desires. 
You  see  the  end  !  " 

Looking  into  her  eyes,  observing  her  well-defined 
features,  noticing  that,  except  for  her  awful  pallor,  she 
might  well  be  a  handsome  woman,  especially  when  bright 
and  happy  instead  of,  as  now,  grief-stained,  St.  Georges 
could  understand.  Then,  while  also  he  meditated  as 
to  whether  this  De  Roquemaure  was  a  fiend  that  had 
taken  human  shape,  the  woman  went  on : 

"Daily  almost  some  fall  under  his  bane.  But  a 
week  ago  a  stranger  here — one  carrying  a  helpless  babe 
— was  set  upon " 

"  What ! "  and  now  he  felt  as  though  the  universe 
was  spinning  round. 

— "  was  set  upon,"  she  continued,  "  struck  to  death — 
he  is  dying  now,  or  dead " 

"  And  the  babe  ?  "  St.  Georges  interposed. 

*'  Carried  off  by  those  who  did  his  bidding." 

"  0  God  !  Lost  again  !  "  and  the  moan  he  uttered 
startled  the  woman  out  of  her  own  grief. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked,  her  great  eyes  piercing 
him. 

"  As  I  believe,  that  child's  unhappy  father." 

Aroused  by  this  to  forget  her  own  sufferings,  even 
to  forget  for  the  moment  the  dreadful  burden  borne  by 
the  gallows  tree,  she  thrust  out  her  hand  and  seized  his 
sleeve. 

"  Who,  then,  is  the  dying  man  ?  "  she  whispered. 


DE  ROQUEMAURE'S   WORK.  109 

"  I  know  not — but— but — for  mercy's  sake,  in  mem- 
ory of  the  misery  you  have  suffered,  in  pity  for  mine, 
lead  me  to  this  man !  You  know  where  he  is ;  you  can 
do  so?" 

"  Come,"  she  said.  "  Come.  He  is  in  my  hut  close 
by.  We  were  very  poor,  we  had  no  better.  Come. 
Tie  your  horse  to  a  tree  and  follow  me." 

Dazed,  scarce  knowing  whether  he  was  awake  or 
asleep  and  dreaming,  he  obeyed  her,  leading  the  horse 
away  some  paces  so  that  it  should  be  no  more  fright- 
ened by  the  horrible  burden  of  the  gibbet,  and  follow- 
ing her  through  a  thicket.  In  other  circumstances  he 
might  have  feared  an  ambush ;  now,  a  thousand  hidden 
enemies  would  not  have  held  him  back. 

She  wound  her  way  along  a  trodden  track  leading 
down  into  the  valley  below,  but  went  only  a  few  score 
yards  when  she  stopped  outside  what  was  indeed  no 
better  than  a  hut,  a  wooden  building  thatched  with 
turf,  from  a  window  in  which  there  gleamed  a  ray  of 
light.  And  she,  placing  her  ears  to  the  door  ere  she 
pushed  it  open,  said  to  him  :  "  He  lives  still.  -You  can 
ar  his  breathing.  Hark !  " 

"  Thank  God ! "  St.  Georges  said  fervently.  "  Who- 
ever he  may  be,  he  will  be  able  to  tell  me  of  the  child. 
Open,  I  beg  you  ;  open  in  the  name  of  mercy ! " 

She  obeyed  him  at  once,  thrusting  the  door  open  and 
drawing  him  in,  and  then  by  the  light  of  a  miserable, 
small  oil  lamp  that  nickered  on  a  rude  wooden  table  he 
saw  stretched  upon  a  pallet  in  a  corner  of  the  place  the 
dying  man.  Also  he  noticed  that  the  room  reeked  and 
was  fetid  with  his  hot  breath  and  with  another  hot,  dry 
odour  that  he  knew  was  the  odour  of  blood. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  room  St.  Georges  could  see  a 
white  face,  could  also  perceive  two  great  staring  eyes 


HO  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

turned  up  to  the  rafters ;  he  could  hear,  too,  the  drawn, 
labouring  breath  as  it  rattled  through  his  throat  and 
chest,  accompanied  bj  a  moan  as  it  came  forth. 

"  Quick ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  quick  !  The  light !  He 
lives  still,  but  his  minutes  are  numbered.  He  is  dying, 
dying  fast.  Where  is  his  wound  ?  " 

"  In  the  lower  part  of  his  body,  through  him.  A 
sword  thrust.  I  have  tried  to  stanch  it,  but  it  flows 
always.  I  marvel  he  has  lived  so  long." 

She  brought  the  oil  lamp  forward  as  she  spoke  and 
held  it  near  the  man,  and  St.  Georges,  kneeling  down, 
looked  at  him.  Then  with  a  bound  he  sprang  up 
again,  exclaiming :  "  He  here !  Heaven  and  earth  !  what 
brings  him  here?  How  comes  he  in  this  mystery? 
What — what  does  it  mean,  what  portend  ?  " 

"You  know  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  him." 

The  man  stretched  upon  the  pallet  was  Pierre,  the 
Bishop  of  Lodeve's  man-servant !  " 

"  Speak ! "  said  St.  Georges  to  him  a  moment  later, 
smothering  for  the  time  his  wonder  and  astonishment. 
"  Speak  if  you  can.  One  word  from  you  may  alter  my 
whole  life,  my  child's  life.  Speak  ere  you  die." 

It  seemed,  however,  that  he  would  never  speak 
again.  But,  also,  it  seemed  as  if  all  consciousness  was 
not  gone  from  him  yet — as  if  he  recognised  the  man 
kneeling  once  more  at  his  side,  while  again  the  woman 
held  the  lamp  above  them.  As  far  as  he  was  able  with 
his  failing  strength,  he  endeavoured  to  shrink  from  St. 
Georges  while  as  he  did  so  his  eyes,  distended  either 
with  fear  or  horror,  glared  at  him.  But  from  his  mouth 
there  came  no  sound  but  the  laboured  breathing. 

Again  St.  Georges  besought  him   to  speak;  plied 


DE  ROQUEM ACRE'S   WORK. 

him  with  questions.  "Was  the  child  taken  from  him 
Dorine  ;  by  whom  had  it  been  taken ;  how  had  he  whom 
St.  Georges  had  never  seen  until  he  slept  at  the  bishop's, 
and  whom  he  had  left  at  Dijon,  found  his  way  here 
only  to  be  murdered  ?  And  still  no  answer  came,  while 
once  the  dying  man  tried  with  his  feeble  hand  to  push 
St.  Georges  away,  and  still  stared'  in  ghastly  horror  at 
him. 

At  last  the  end  arrived.  The  breathing  grew  faster 
and  faster  and  more  laboured ;  it  rattled  more  horribly 
in  his  chest ;  a  spasm  convulsed  him,  and  he  sank  back 
exhausted,  while  from  his  face  and  throat  which  were 
all  uncovered  a  heavy  sweat  poured.  Then  suddenly  he 
raised  himself  to  almost  a  sitting  posture  with  his  hands, 
and,  with  a  rolling  glance  that  seemed  to  take  in  all  the 
hut,  he  sank  back  slowly  again.  Yet  as  he  did  so  his 
lips  moved,  and  a  whisper  came  from  them — a  whisper 
that  seemed  to  frame  the  words  "  De  Roquernaure."  A 
moment  after  he  was  dead. 

"  Tell  me  all  you  know,"  St.  Georges  said  to  the 
woman  a  few  moments  later.  "  How  he  came  here, 
how  he  was  set  upon  and  done  to  death  ?  I  must  ride 
on  and  on  to-night,  yet  ere  long,  if  I  can  compass  it,  I 
will  return  to  Troyes  and  never  leave  it  until  I  have 
found  my  child  and  know  all.  Tell  me." 

"  He  came  here,"  she  said,  "  five  days  ago — was 
brought  here  by  me,  for  I  saw  him  attacked  and 
wounded  to  the  death,  as  you  know  now.  I  was  up 
there  by — by  him  who  swings  upon  that  hellish  gibbet ; 
the  dawn  was  at  hand." 

"  The  dawn,"  St.  Georges  whispered  to  himself. 
"The  dawn  of  five  days  ago,  when  D'Arpajou's  horse 
rode  into  the  town.  The  day  Dorine  was  lost." 


112  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  Then,"  the  woman  continued,  "  through  the  com- 
ing day  I  saw  him  advancing  from  the-  town  upon  this 
road,  carrying  a  bundle  under  his  arm." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yet  not  so  fast  but  that  two  others  who  had  left 
the  gate  behind  him  came  swifter  than  he.  One,  a 
man,  young  and  supple,  clad  in  the  De  Roquemaure 
russet — no  need  of  that  to  tell  me  that  devil  had  a  hand 
in  what  was  to  be  done ;  the  other,  a  woman,  all  in 
sombre  black,  a  mask  upon  her  face." 

"A  woman  in  it!  " 

"  Ho  ! "  said  the  peasant,  "  doubt  not !  He  has  his 
women,  too,  at  his  beck  and  call.  Easy  enough  to  find 
one  of  the  scon  rings  of  Troyes — perhaps  an  innocent 
girl  once,  before  she  knew  him  ! — to  do  his  bidding." 

"  Go  on." 

"  Swiftly  they  came  behind  him,  yet  silently,  too, 
the  man  ahead  of  the  woman,  each  on  different  sides  of 
the  way,  the  former  outstripping  the  latter,  so  fast  did 
he  come.  Then,  at  last,  the  hunted  one,  this  dead  one 
here,  knew  that  it  was  so;  he  turned^  and  saw  he  was 
pursued.  At  first  he  made  as  though  about  to  run  for 
it;  then,  because,  may  be,  the  burden  he  bore  was 
heavy,  he  paused.  Next  he  placed  the  child  upon  the 
ground — for  now  I  knew,  I  saw,  what  it  was  as  he  did 
so — and  he  drew  his  sword  with  one  hand,  took  a  pistol 
from  his  belt  and  held  it  in  the  other,  and  so  awaited 
his  pursuer." 

Again  St.  Georges  said  beneath  his  breath,  "  Go  on." 

"  The  other  came  swiftly  up,  paused  once  himself — 
perhaps  he  feared  the  doubly  armed  man — then  looked 
round  at  the  masked  woman,  who  seemed  to  say  some- 
thing. Doubtless  she  urged  him  on,  and  again  he  came 
forward  until  he  and  the  fugitives  were  face  to  face." 


DE   ROQUEMAURE'S   WORK.  113 

"  Yes,"  came  from   St.  Georges's  close-set  lips. 

"  What  they  said  I  know  not ;  I  was  too  far  away. 
But  their  action  was  swift.  De  Roquemaure's  man 
made  as  though  he  would  seize  upon  the  child  lying  at 
the  roadside — the  disguised  woman  creeping  ever  nearer 
— when  the  other  fired  his  pistol  at  him,  and  missed.  I 
saw  that  as  the  smoke  cleared  away,  for  when  it  had 
done  so  they  were  closely  engaged  with  their  swords. 
Some  passes  they  made ;  once  it  seemed  as  if  the  fugi- 
tive won  upon  the  other,  for  I  saw  his  blade  go  through 
his  left  sleeve ;  then,  ere  he  could  recover  himself,  the 
other  had  thrust  his  sword  through  his  body — I  heard 
him  shriek ;  I  saw  him  fall !  A  moment  later  the 
woman  had  snatched  up  the  child  and  was  hurrying 
back  to  the  city,  the  man  following  after  her,  his  left 
arm  hanging  straight  by  his  side,  as  though  still  from 
pain.  And  I  ran  to  this  one  here  and  saw  that  he  had 
got  his  death.  'Tis  strange  he  died  not  sooner  than 
to-night.  Strange  he  should  linger  so  long." 

"  How  got  you  him  here  ?  " 

"  My  brother,  who  hates  the  De  Roquemaures  as  I 
do— as  Godrknows  I  have  cause  to  do — works  near  here 
on  his  farm.  I  dragged  that  dead  creature,  all  insensi- 
ble as  he  was,  into  the  copse,  then  fetched  Jean,  and  so, 
together,  we  brought  him.  Say,"  the  woman  continued, 
leaning  forward  under  the  lamp  to  regard  the  soldier 
fixedly,  "  you  are  a  gentleman,  an  officer  of  some  regi- 
ment. You  can  tell  me.  Is  not  so  foul  a  crime  as  this 
enough  to  doom  De  Roquemaure,  if  brought 'home  to 
him?" 

"  If  brought  home  to  him,  perhaps.  But  the  nobles 
are  powerful.  You  say  that  he  is  so,  especially  in  this 
neighbourhood." 

"  Curse  him,  yes  !  "  she  replied,  her  livid  lips  drawn 


1H  IN   THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

tight  together.     "  Yet  not  forever.     There  are   those 
who  will  set  the  snare  and  trap  him  yet." 

"  I    pray    God ! "   St.  Georges  replied.     "  He    has 
wronged  many ;  surely  justice  will  yet  be  done." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"I   MUST   SPEAK  !" 

THE  Epiphany — called  in  old  France,  under  the 
Bourbons,  la  Fete  des  Rois — was  drawing  to  a  close,  as 
St.  Georges,  his  handsome  face  looking  very  dejected 
and  his  heart  heavy  as  lead  within  him,  rode  into  Paris 
by  the  Charenton  gate. 

Not  so  entirely  over,  however,  but  that  the  streets 
were  still  crowded  with  holiday  makers  of  all  kinds, 
with  those  who  were  there  solely  to  enjoy  and  amuse 
themselves,  and  also  with  those  who  sought  to  make 
profit  out  of  the  others.  Moreover,  still  from  all  the 
towers  and  steeples  the  bells  rang  in  honour  of  those 
who  had  died  during  the  past  year,  so  that,  as  Boi- 
leau  sneeringly  remarked,  '•'•Pour  honorer  les  marts  Us 
font  mourir  les  vivants"  while  from  the  dark,  sombre- 
looking  houses — of  which  the  same  writer  observed 
that  they  must  have  been  built  by  philosophers  instead 
1  of  architects,  so  filthy  were  they  without  and  so  brilliant 
within — were  still  hung  paper  lanterns,  flags,  banners, 
and  all  kinds  of  devices  and  decorations. 

St.  Georges  had  found  it  difficult  to  pick  his  way 
through  the  many  obstacles  with  which  the  streets  were 
encumbered  from  the  time  he  left  the  Bastille  and  the 
Rue  St.  Antoine,  and  began  to  approach  the  more  fash- 


"I  MUST  SPEAK!"  115 

ionable  part  of  Paris,  the  vicinity  of  the  Pont  Neuf. 
Richly  gilt  carriages  of  the  noblesse  and  the  nouveaux 
riches  passed  each  other  frequently,  the  inmates  of  the 
former  disdaining  to  notice  the  inmates  of  the  other — 
human  nature  was  the  same  then  as  now — and  threw  the 
January  mud  upon  an  extraordinary  crowd  of  foot  pas- 
sengers— a  crowd  composed  of  ladies  with  mirrors  in 
their  hands ;  men  with  huge  blonde  or  white  wigs,  who 
would  stop  suddenly  to  take  a  comb  from  their  servants' 
hands  and  arrange  their  false  locks ;  others  of  the  com- 
moner sort  selling  coffee  and  chocolate  on  the  footway, 
another  drawing  teeth  in  the  open  street,  two  men  fight- 
ing a  duel  with  short  swords,  a  woman  and  a  child  pick- 
ing pockets.* 

Because  it  was  the  Epiphany — the  King's  Fete — 
Louis  and  the  court  were  at  the  Louvre  this  year,  occu- 
pying the  vast  and  stately  palace  on  which  the  Grande 
Monarque  had  spent  since  1664  the  sum  of  ten  million 
seven  hundred  thousand  francs ;  and  high  festival  was 
being  kept.  All  the  court  had  come  with  him,  includ- 
ing the  wife  who  was  still  suspected  by  some  of  being 
the  mistress ;  the  duchesses  and  countesses  who  had 
been  mistresses  if  they  were  so  no  longer ;  the  bishops 
who  were  not  in  disgrace  and  under  the  displeasure  of 
De  Maintenon ;  the  numerous  offspring  by  various 
mothers ;  the  ministers  and  officials — including  Lou- 
vois.  And  it  was  to  present  himself  to  the  latter  first, 
and  afterward  to  seek  audience  with  Louis,  that  St. 
Georges  now  rode  toward  the  palace. 

"  Surely,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  directed  his 
course  through  the  heterogeneous  mass  in  the  streets, 

*  See  engravings  of  Delia  Bella,  done  at  the  time  and  repre- 
senting such  scenes. 


116  IN   THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  surely  when  I  relate  my  tale,  tell  of  the  terrible  blow 
that  has  fallen  upon  me,  I  shall  be  forgiven  for  hav- 
ing halted  on  my  route.  I  am  more  than  a  week  be- 
hind, have  lagged  on  my  road,  yet  for  what  a  cause — 
what  a  cause !  Oh,  my  child,  my  little  Dorine,  that  I 
should  have  had  to  come  away  and  leave  you  behind ! 
My  child!  My  child!" 

Never  for  a  moment  since  he  had  left  the  peasant's 
hut  had  his  thoughts  been  absent  from  that  child,  never 
had  they  ceased  to  dwell  upon  the  conspiracy  that  ex- 
isted without  doubt  against  both  him  and  her.  More- 
over, so  intricate,  so  entangled  did  all  appear  that  the 
mesh  seemed  incapable  of  being  unravelled,  and  his 
brain  whirled  as  he  endeavoured  to  pierce  the  darkness 
of  it  all. 

"  Let  me  reflect,"  he  had  pondered  to  himself,  as  day 
by  day  he  drew  nearer  to  the  capital,  "  let  me  try  to 
think  it  all  out,  see  it  clearly.  God  give  me  power  to 
do  so ! " 

Then  he  had  endeavoured,  by  going  over  his  life 
from  the  commencement,  to  reduce  matters  to  some- 
thing short  of  chaos. 

"  That  I  am  De  Vannes's  son — his  heir — must  be !  " 
he  thought ;  "  it  gives  the  cause,  the  reason  for  what 
follows.  This  is  clear.  Also  the  attack  on  me,  the 
stealing  of  Dorine,  proceeds  from  a  like  cause.  And  if 
all  that  was  the  duke's — his  title,  his  wealth — is  mine, 
and,  after  me,  hers,  in  whose  light  can  we  stand,  against 
whose  interest  thrust,  but  De  Roquemaure's?  All  this 
is  as  clear  as  day ;  it  is  here  the  mystery  begins.  For, 
first,  how  does  he  know  this?  Next — which  is  more 
strange — how  know  that  on  a  certain  night  I  should  be 
on  the  road  between  two  such  remote  places  as  Pontar- 
lier  and  Paris  ?  How  know,  too,  that  I  have  my  child 


"I  MUST  SPEAK!"  117 

with  me,  as  he  must  have  known,  since  he  mentioned  it 
to  the  myrmidons  he  enlisted  at  Recey  ?  If  I  could  dis- 
cover this — should  ever  discover  it,  a  light  might  break 
in  upon  what  followed — more  mysterious  still." 

When  he  had  turned  this  over  and  over  again  in  his 
thoughts  as  mile  by  mile  and  league  by  league  he  drew 
nearer  the  end  of  his  journey,  he  endeavoured  to  ar- 
range and  piece  together  the  further,  the  newer,  and 
fresher  mystery  of  all  that  had  happened  since  the 
night  he  rested  under  the  roof  of  the  De  Roquemaures' 
house.  And  here  his  perplexity  was  even  greater  than 
before. 

"  He  acts  alone,"  he  reflected ;  "  at  least  without  as- 
sistance from  his  kinswomen — his  stepmother  and  half- 
sister.  For  if  such  is  not  the  case,  then  viler  wretches 
than  they  never  bore  the  shape  of  womanhood.  The 
excitement  of  the  marquise,  the  noble  sympathy  of  that 
girl  expressed  in  every  glance  of  those  pure  eyes,  were 
not,  could  not  have  been  assumed — false  !  If  so,  perish 
all  my  belief  in  woman's  truth  and  honour  !  Yet  from 
that  very  manoir  over  which  she,  his  mother,  rules  more 
than  he,  for  the  present  at  least,  came  forth  two — one  a 
man  in  his  garb,  the  dress  of  his  house — the  other  a 
woman.  For  her,  though,  it  is  not  so  difficult  of  ex- 
planation !  The  murdered  peasant's  wife  spoke  of  him 
as  having  female  instruments  at  his  beck  and  call,  and 
although  her  companion  wore  his  livery  she  might  be 
any  creature  in  the  city  over  whom  he  possessed  in- 
fluence." 

And  now,  as  he  reflected,  he  knew  that  he  had  come 
to  the  most  difficult  of  all  knots  to  untie,  the  hardest 
of  all  the  mystery  to  be  solved.  For,  arrived  so  far  in 
his  endeavours  to  unwind  the  plot  with  which  he  was 
surrounded,  he  found  himself  at  fault,  groping  help- 


118  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

lessly  in  the  dark,  when  lie  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
memory  of  the  man  who  had  been  assassinated  by  De 
Roquemaure's  vassal — face  to  face  with  Pierre,  the 
Bishop  of  Lodeve's  servant,  who  at  the  time  he  was  set 
upon  was  in  possession  of  Doriue ! 

One  thought  alone  rose  to  his  mind  at  first,  one  only 
which  would  have  explained  his  presence  on  the  scene, 
his  possession  of  the  child — the  thought  that  the  cyn- 
ical Bishop  of  Lodeve,  the  man  of  whom  the  whole  of 
France  spoke  so  ill,  might  in  truth  have  known  of  some 
deep-laid  scheme  for  kidnapping  that  child  and  have 
sent  Pierre  forward — or  after  him — to  rescue  it  at  all 
costs,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  if  abstracted  by  him,  it 
could  be  better  kept  in  safety  than  even  by  its  own 
father.  A  wild  and  visionary  idea,  in  truth,  to  have 
entered  St.  Georges's  mind,  yet,  perhaps,  not  too  remote 
to  suggest  itself  to  an  unhappy  parent  so  bereft  as  he 
was.  But,  in  a  moment,  another  reflection  chased  it 
away. 

"  No ! "  he  exclaimed  to  himself  as  the  second 
thought  arose.  "  No !  no  !  More  like  that  the  fellow 
Pierre  was  the  messenger  from  Dijon  who  put  the 
ruffians  on  their  guard ;  who  warned  them  Jhat  I  was 
accompanied  by  the  Mousquetaire  Noir;  that  they 
would  have  two  soldiers  to  contend  against  instead  of 
one.  The  fellow  who  had  tracked  us  all  day,  then  passed 
us,  and  who,  masked  like  the  others,  had  stood  out  of 
the  fight  in  the  graveyard.  So  !  so !  That  vile  bishop 
is  in  it,  too.  Fool  that  I  am  to  have  thought  that  that 
sneering,  evil  priest  had  ever  a  kindly  thought  in  his 
heart.  Yet  why  in  it  also?  Why?  why?" 

He  could  follow  his  chain  of  reasoning  no  more — 
against  all  his  thoughts  a  blacker  wall  of  impenetrable 
mystery  rose  than  ever.  He  was  forced  to  desist  from 


"I  MUST  SPEAK!"  119 

thinking,  or  go  mad  in  doing  so.  For  if  this  man 
Pierre  was  De  Roquemaure's  auxiliary — if,  as  was  un- 
doubted from  the  peasant  woman's  story,  he  had  pos- 
sessed himself  of  Dorine  on  behalf  of  De  Roquemaure — 
why  had  two  other  of  that  villain's  myrmidons  slain 
him  and  possessed  themselves  of  her  ?  His  mind  could 
find  no  answer  to  this ;  his  reasoning  ceased ;  he  could 
go  no  further  through  the  maze. 

"  God,  he  knows,"  he  muttered  reverently.  "  In 
his  good  time,  in  his  infinite  mercy,  it  may  be  he  will 
let  me  know  all,  too." 

But  even  as  he  rode  through  the  crowded  streets  and 
drew  near  the  great  courtyard  of  the  Louvre  he  was 
still  thinking — thinking  always — of  the  web  in  which  he 
was  entangled  and  of  his  helpless  little  child  alone,  un- 
happy— perhaps  ill  treated — perhaps  dead !  There  was 
that  day  no  more  heartbroken  man  in  Paris  than  he. 

As  he  drew  rein  at  the  courtyard  door,  vast  as  a 
cathedral's,  there  issued  from  it  a  great  emblazoned  car- 
riage, with  arms  and  crests  upon  its  panels,  the  four 
horses  drawing  it  being  also  richly  apparelled  with 
velvet  and  nodding  plumes,  and  with  at  the  back  three 
footmen  who,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  time,  stood  each 
behind  the  other  on  a  platform  instead  of  side  by  side. 

His  eye,  glancing  into  the  interior  of  the  vast  fabric, 
saw  within  a  woman,  young  and  beautiful,  yet  with  her 
fair  face  disfigured — as  was  indeed  obligatory  on  all 
women  who  attended  the  court  of  Louis — with  powder 
and  paint,  and  with  mouches,  or  patches,  cut  into  the 
various  forms  of  stars,  half  moons,  and  so  forth.  Her 
dress,  too,  was  gorgeous,  being  of  rich  velvet  of  the 
colour  then  known  as  "  pigeon  breast,"  faced  with  silver 
brocade  and  slashed  with  seams  to  show  the  red  and 
silver  lace,  while  the  whole  was  enriched  with  plain 


120  IN  THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

satin  and  watered  ribbons,  and  deep  full  point  lace  at 
breast  and  sleeves.  On  her  head,  though  not  hiding 
her  much-curled  hair,  was  a  rich  escoffion  of  ruby  velvet 
surmounted  by  pearls,  and  tied  beneath  her  chin. 

She  saw  him  in  a  moment,  the  soft  hazel  eyes  rest- 
ing full  on  him — saw,  too,  that  he  hesitated  as  though 
about  to  draw  his  horse  away  out  of  her  range  of  vision  ; 
then  with  a  look  she  beckoned  him  to  draw  near  her 
carriage  door,  while  through  the  window  at  the  back  of 
the  vehicle  she  made  a  sign  to  the  first  of  the  three  foot- 
men to  have  it  stopped  against  the  chaussee. 

And  he,  scarce  knowing  what  to  do — whether,  in- 
deed, to  content  himself  with  coldly  taking  off  his  hat 
and  avoiding  her,  or  to  obey  her  glance,  yet  instinctively 
did  the  latter,  and  drew  up  to  the  window.  And  in 
another  moment  the  embroidered  glove  had  been  with- 
drawn from  her  white  hand,  which  was  resting  in  his, 
while  her  eyes  scanned  his  sorrow-stricken  face. 

"  Monsieur  St.  Georges  honoured  our  poor  house  no 
more,"  she  said,  "  ere  he  quitted  Troyes.  Yet,  consider- 
ing all,  it  was  not  strange  he  should  not  do  so." 

On  his  guard,  since — believing  though  he  did  in  her 
honour  and  in  her  mother's — he  could  not  forget  she 
was  a  De  Roquemaure,  the  kinswoman  of  the  devil  who 
had  already  worked  him  so  much  ill,  and  might — nay, 
would,  if  not  thwarted — work  so  much  more,  he  re- 
plied cautiously  :  '"  Considering  all,'  mademoiselle  ;  you 
doubtless  refer  to " 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  let  there  be  no  more 
cross  purposes.  I  know — I  know  as  though  I  could  see 
deep  into  your  heart,  beneath  your  gorget,  that — that — 
you  couple  us  with  my  brother.  And  you  know,"  while 
as  she  spoke  she  leaned  forward  so  that  her  fair — yet, 
alas!  painted — face  almost  bent  over  his  sleeve,  and  her 


"I   MUST  SPEAK!"  121 

clear,  starlike  eyes  gazed  into  his,  "  that  he  is  your 
enemy ;  at  least,  you  fear  so." 

"  I  know  nothing,"  he  replied,  "  except  that  all — all 
— in  one  case  suspicion  in  the  other  certainty — points 
to  him.  I  know  that  when  one,  whose  part  in  the  affair 
I  cannot  yet  unravel,  had  my  child" — he  said  "my 
child  "  with  a  sob  in  his  voice — "  in  his  keeping,  a 
vassal  of  De  Boquemaure's,  clad  in  the  russet  livery  of 
your  house,  and  accompanied  by  one  of  his  master's 
lemans,  slew  him  and  stole  her.  I  know  that." 

"  One  of  his  lemans ! "  she  whispered,  while  over 
her  face  there  crept  a  blush  deeper  than  the  court- 
ordained  paint  —  "  one  of  his  lemans  !  You  know 
that?" 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied.  "  Masked,  too,  as  though, 
foul  as  she  might  be,  she  still  had  some  shame,  dreaded 
to  show  her  face  in  such  proceeding." 

She  seemed  to  be  endeavouring  to  tame  some  emotion 
within  her  ;  perhaps,  as  he  thought,  to  prevent  any  sign 
of  knowledge  on  her  part  escaping  from  her  by  accident. 
Then  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice : 

"  Since  you  know  that,  you  must  know  more.  Oh, 
my  God  ! "  she  exclaimed  suddenly — so  suddenly  that 
he  started  at  her  excitement.  "  I  must  speak !  Yet, 
Monsieur  St.  Georges,  remember;  it  is  the  man's  sis- 
ter, the  child  of  the  same  father  as  himself,  who 
speaks  to  you.  Remember  that,  I  say,  and  listen. 
Though  he  stole  your  child,  though  his  vassal  slew  the 
man  who  had  it  in  his  keeping,  though  his  leman — 
that  I  should  pronounce  the  word ! — assisted  that  vassal, 
yet  De  Roquemaure  has  not  harmed  it — will  not  harm 
it.  Do  you  believe  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  more.    Where  is  it  ?    It  is  mine,  mine, 

mine ! " 

9 


122  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  Do  you  believe  me,  Monsieur  St.  Georges  ? — me, 
though  I  am  his  sister,  a  De  Roquemaure  myself  ?  " 

His  eyes  looked  back  into  hers  now — looked  deep  into 
those  pure,  clear,  gray  eyes;  he  hesitated  no  longer. 
She  was  his  sister,  was  a  De  Roquemaure,  yet  he  be- 
lieved. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "mademoiselle,  I  believe.  I  do 
believe." 

Beneath  the  hateful,  necessary  carmine  he  saw  the 
true  blood  show  itself  as  he  spoke.  He  saw  the  honest, 
truthful  eyes  glisten — at  least  no  rococo  monarch  could 
cause  them  to  be  made  vile ! — he  knew  that  his  words 
had  satisfied  her.  He  had  an  ally,  a  friend,  here.  And 
how  powerful  such  an  ally  might  be  !  Yet  he  contin- 
ued, his  anxiety  overmastering  all : 
1  "  But  in  pity,  mademoiselle,  not  so  much  for  me, 
her  father,  as  her  own  innocent,  helpless  little  self — 
think  of  her,  poor  little  babe,  in  that  man's — in  any 
man's  power ! — tell  me  all  you  know.  Tell  me,  I  im- 
plore." 

What  she  would  have  said,  what  answered,  he  could 
not  know.  At  that  moment  there  came  forth  from  the 
inner  court  a  troop  of  the  mounted  gendarmerie,  fol- 
lowed by  an  enormous  carriage,  three  times  the  size  of 
that  in  which  sat  Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure,  covered 
with  gilding.  It  was  the  carriage  of  Louis  Quatorze, 
who  was  about  to  proceed  to  Marly  for  the  night.  Nat- 
urally, therefore,  the  vehicle  in  which  Aurelie  sat  was 
forced  to  go  forward ;  naturally,  also,  St.  Georges  had  to 
back  his  horse  to  the  side  of  the  huge  gateway,,  since  no 
obstruction  was  allowed  to  impede  the  gracious  sov- 
ereign's progress.  With  a  bow  they  parted,  therefore, 
she  giving  him  one  glance  that  might  mean  that  later 
on  they  would  meet  again,  while  her  carriage  proceeded 


THE   MINISTER  OP   WAR.  123 

as  fast  as  was  possible  in  the  direction  of  the  already 
fashionable  quarter  of  St.-Germain. 

And  he,  drawing  aside,  witnessed  the  passage  of 
Louis  ere  he  himself  proceeded  to  present  himself  to 
Louvois.  He  saw  the  king  with  his  great  carriage  full 
of  ladies,  saw  the  table  inside  it  covered  with  sweetmeats 
and  fruit,  saw  the  greatest  monarch  in  Europe  lolling 
back  alone  on  one  seat,  a  dog  upon  his  knees.  And,  as 
he  bowed  low  before  his  master,  it  seemed  to  him  almost 
as  if  the  king  had  distinguished  him  from  among  the 
heterogeneous  mass  of  people  who  thronged  the  filthy 
footpath,  and  had  looked  at  him  an  instant  as  though 
either  gazing  on  a  familiar  face  or  wondering  where  he 
had  seen  one  like  it  before. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   MINISTER  OF  WAR. 

"  You  come  a  little  late,  Monsieur  St.  Georges,"  the 
harsh,  raucous,  and  underbred  voice  of  Louvois  said — "  a 
little  late.  Too  late  by  far  for  an  officer  selected  by  his 
Majesty  for  special  service." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  his  visitor  as  he  spoke, 
changing  the  position  he  had  assumed  in  front  of  the 
great  fireplace  in  the  room  set  apart  as  his  cabinet  in 
the  Louvre,  and  seemed  now  only  intent  on  watching 
the  logs  burning  in  the  grate,  and  of  dismissing — or  in- 
sulting— the  chevau-Uger. 

"  Perhaps  when  M.  de  Louvois  has  heard  my  expla- 
nation of  the  reason  why  I  am  late,  have  tarried  on  my 
road,  he  may  be  disposed  to  overlook  my  dilitoriness," 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

St.  Georges  replied,  regarding  the  back  of  the  roturier 
minister  as  he  spoke ;  and  the  well-bred  tones  in  which 
he  uttered  the  words  caused  Louvois  to  turn  around  and 
face  him  again. 

They  made  a  strange  contrast  as  they  stood  there. 
Both  men  were  more  than  ordinarily  tall,  yet  both  car- 
ried their  height  differently.  Louvois's  was  decreased 
in  appearance  by  the  heaviness  of  his  shoulders,  his 
head  being  deep  set  between  them.  St.  Georges  was  as 
erect  as  a  dart;  while,  as  he  faced  the  man  whom,  by 
some  innate  perception,  he  regarded  as  an  enemy — or,  at 
least,  not  a  friend — his  head  was  thrown  back,  so  that 
his  height  and  uprightness  seemed  somehow  increased. 
Moreover,  the  whole  appearance  of  each  was  in  extreme 
contrast,  and  that  not  a  contrast  in  favour  of  the  min- 
ister. The  stained  military  jacket  of  the  soldier,  the 
long,  brown  leather  boots,  the  large  cavalry  spurs,  the 
great  bowl-hilted  sword,  all  gave  him  an  appearance 
of  advantage  over  the  sombre,  velvet-clad  Louvois ;  the 
long,  curling  hair  falling  on  his  shoulders  in  a  thick 
mass  was  more  becoming  than  the  wig  a  trois  marteaux 
which  Louvois  wore  outside  state  functions.  And  for 
the  rest,  the  pale  yet  weather-exposed  face  of  the  one, 
with  its  long,  deep,  chestnut  mustache,  caused  the  ca- 
daverous and  coarse-cut  features  of  the  other  —  the 
thick,  bulbous  nose  and  full,  sensual  lips — to  appear  in- 
significant, if  not  ignoble. 

Louvois  had  kept  him  waiting  three  hours  in  the 
anteroom — a  thing  which,  however,  he  would  have  done 
in  any  case  and  to  any  one  seeking  an  interview  with 
him,  excepting  only  some  scion  of  royalty,  legitimate  or 
illegitimate,  one  of  the  king's  marshals,  or  u  relative  of 
one  of  the  king's  mistresses — for  he  understood  as  well 
as  any  vulgar,  important  parvenu  of  to-day,  or  thought 


THE   MINISTER  OP   WAR.  125 

he  understood,  the  value  of  administering  such  snubs. 
And,  now  that  the  visitor  was  admitted* his  manner  was 
as  insulting  and  as  would-be  humiliating  as  he  knew 
how  to  fashion  it.  Moreover,  with  another  trait  of  vul- 
garity as  common  in  those  days  as  these,  he  had  bidden 
him  to  no  seat. 

His  behaviour  was  the  ignoble  spite  of  the  man  who 
believed  he  saw  in  the  other  the  son  of  him  who  had 
consistently  ignored  his  existence — the  late  Due  de 
Vannes. 

"  The  explanation,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  St  Georges's 
remark,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  which  he  endeavoured 
to  render  cold  and  haughty,  but  which  was,  in  truth,  an 
angry,  bitter  one,  "  will  have  to  be  very  full,  very  com- 
plete, to  satisfy  his  Majesty.  You  quitted  the  garrison 
of  Pontarlier  on  the  last  night  of  the  last  year,  riding 
on  special  service  in  the  king's  name,  and  you  have 
tarried  long  on  the  road  in,  I  imagine,  your  own  serv- 
ice. Beyond  bringing  one  message — that  from  the 
Bishop  of  Lod£ve — you  have  failed  in  your  duty,  sir ; 
indeed,  failed  so  much  that  the  Marquise  de  Roque- 
maure,  from  whom  you  were  ordered  to  bring  another 
message,  has  actually  preceded  your  arrival  here.  Has 
passed  you  on  the  read  and  entered  Paris  before  you, 
though  you  quitted  her  manoir  before  she  did ;  has, 
indeed,  been  able  to  give  an  interesting  account  of  you 
and  your  supposed  adventures." 

"  Supposed ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges  quietly — "  sup- 
posed !  Does  madame  la  marquise  stigmatize  them  as 
'supposed,'  or  does  monsieur  le  ministre,  Monsieur  de 
Louvois,  apply  that  epithet  to  them  ?  "  and  as  he  spoke, 
with  still  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  left  hand  resting 
lightly  in  the  cup  of  his  sword  hilt,  he  looked  very 
straight  into  the  eyes  of  Louvois. 


126  INT  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Madame  la  marquise  is  a  woman  ;  she  believes  — 
and  tells  —  a  story  as  she  hears  it." 

St.  Georges  bent  his  head  for  a  moment,  then  as 
quietly  as  he  asked  the  previous  question,  but  equally  as 
clearly  and  distinctly  as  he  had  previously  spoken,  he 
said  : 

"  Monsieur  Louvois  will  remember  he  is  speaking  to 
a  soldier." 


"  Who  permits  no  one,  not  even  the  minister  of  the 
army,  who  is  his  superior,  to  question  his  veracity. 
What  he  told  madame  he  told  as  it  happened." 

Louvois  laughed  somewhat  sinisterly  and  wholly  in- 
sultingly, yet  for  him  quietly,  after  which  he  said  : 

"  Monsieur  St.  Georges  is  also  something  else  besides 
a  soldier  —  as,  indeed,  his  present  manner  proclaims.  A 
little  of  —  if  I  may  say  it  without  fear  of  being  done  to 
death  on  my  own  hearth  —  a  bully." 

"A  bully!" 

"  I  fear  so,  disguised  in  the  uniform  of  the  king.  It 
was  bully's  work  which  you  performed  in  the  graveyard 
of  Aignay-le-Duc  —  work  which  if  done  by  others  than 
soldiers  would  lead  to  the  halter;  work  which,  when 
done  by  soldiers,  leads  generally  to  a  file  of  their  breth- 
ren —  to  a  platoon." 

If  St.  Georges  could  have  had  his  way,  followed  his 
own  bent,  it  would  have  been  his  right  hand  instead 
of  left  which  would  have  grasped  his  sword,  and  he 
would  have  bidden  the  minister  unsheath  his  own 
weapon  and  answer  for  his  words.  Yet,  since  he  was 
no  fool,  he  saw  at  once  that  for  some  purpose  of  his 
own  Louvois  was  endeavouring  to  anger  him,  to  lead 
him  into  an  outbreak  of  irritation,  and  he  refused  to  be 
so  led,  so  trapped.  Instead,  he  replied,  therefore  : 


THE   MINISTER  OF   WAR.  127 

"  Monsieur  is,  I  think,  the  father  of  children  himself. 
A  few  words  will,  therefore,  show  him,  prove  to  him, 
my  excuse.  I  bore  with  me  my  child  ;  I  was  set  upon 
by  hired  ruffians,  and  in  the  defence  of  that  child — by 
the  aid  of  another  stalwart  arm — I  resisted  them,  slew 
some,  drove  some  away,  disarmed  others.  Yet,  mo"n- 
sieur,  this  was  not  the  worst,  not  quite  the  worst, 
against  which  I  had  to  contend." 

The  piercing  eyes  of  the  minister  of  war  were  rest- 
ing fixedly  on  him  as  he  spoke — almost,  it  seemed,  as 
though  he  feared  what  might  come  next. 

St.  Georges  proceeded : 

"  Not  quite  the  worst.  This  gang  of  hired  ruffians 
was  led  by  one,  a  cowardly  hound,  who  feared  to  show 
his  face !  by  one  who — so  accurately  had  he  been  noti- 
fied, forewarned,  of  my  approach — must  have  received 
his  intelligence  from  Paris,  from  some  one  who  knew 
what  my  movements  would  be  at  the  time.  Strange, 
was  it  not,  monsieur  le  ministre  ?  " 

Louvois's  face  seemed  less  empurpled  than  before — 
to  have  turned  white ;  then,  brusquely,  as  always,  he 
said : 

"  You  are  here,  sir,  to  answer  questions,  not  to  ask 
them.  Proceed." 

"  From  Paris  alone,"  St.  Georges  continued,  "  could 
that  intelligence  have  come,  since  he  was  there  with  his 
ruffians  to  meet  and  intercept  me — though  I  should  not 
omit  to  state  that,  from  the  time  I  left  Dijon,  there  fol- 
lowed ever  in  my  course  another  knave,  who  took  to  this 
craven  assassin  the  news  that  I  was  not  alone.  Certain 
it  is,  he  would  have  been  of  no  avail,  nor  have  been  sent, 
had  not  the  others  known  well  of  my  intended  journey. 
Monsieur  le  ministre,  are  you  sure,  do  you  think,  that 
in  your  bureau  here  " — the  words  fell  clear  and  distinct 


128  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

as  he  spoke — "  there  is  any  foul,  crawling  creature,  say, 
a  low-born  clerk,  say,  some  ignoble  menial — it  could 
have  been  none  with  the  instincts  of  a  true-born  gentle- 
man of  France ! — who  would  have  set  so  deep  and  foul 
a  plot  as  this  to  waylay  an  innocent  man  ?  " 

He  saw — and,  seeing,  knew  where  one  of  his  enemies, 
at  least,  was — the  slight  wince  which  Louvois  gave — 
above  all,  the  minister  hated  to  have  it  known  that  his 
origin  had  but  one  or  two  generations  of  gentility  to  it ! 
— and  he  knew  also  that  he  had  laid  his  finger  on  one 
knot  in  the  net.  Then  Louvois  spoke  : 

"It  is  impossible  that  such  can  be  the  case.  And 
accusations  against  persons  who  have  no  existence  will 
not  save  you.  You  have  failed  in  your  duty.  Is  this  all 
the  explanation  you  have  to  offer  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  I  have  to  offer  you,  monsieur.  If  it  is  not 
sufficient,  I  must  address  myself  to  the  head  of  the  army 
— to  the  king  himself." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  little  opportunity." 
Then  turning  like  a  tiger  toward  him,  he  said  :  "  Your 
case  has  been  considered  during  your  procrastination; 
your  easily  made  journey  by  extremely  short  and  com- 
fortable stages.  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  you  are  no  longer 
in  the  army.  The  king  has  no  further  need  of  your 
valuable  services." 

"What!     Dismissed  without  appeal — without " 

"  Your  appeal  is  heard  and  disapproved  of — by  me. 
Had  it  been  made  differently — your  explanation  couched 
in  more  respectful  terms,  had  carried  with  it  more  con- 
viction to  my  mind — this,"  and  he  handed  him  a  paper, 
"  would  have  been  destroyed  instead  of  being  given  to 
you.  As  it  is,  read  it,  and  act  on  it.  Otherwise  the 
results  will  be  unfortunate.  Observe  also  the  signatures 
to  it.  They  are  neither  those  of  '  low-born  clerks '  nor 


THE  MINISTER  OF   WAR.  129 

'  ignoble  menials ' ; "  and  he  stepped  back  to  the  fire  and 
stood  regarding  his  victim. 

Certainly  one  signature  came  not  under  the  category 
of  the  above  terms,  it  being  that  of  Louis  himself ;  the 
other  was  that  of  Louvois,  and,  perhaps,  was  open  to 
cavil.  But  St.  Georges  was  immersed  in  the  document 
itself :  beyond  the  (to  him)  fatal  signature  of  the  king, 
the  other  was  of  scant  importance  for  the  moment. 

The  paper  ran  as  follows : 

"MONSIEUR  ST.  GEORGES:  Being  extremely  dis- 
pleased with  you  for  the  manner  in  which  you  have 
tarried  on  your  road  from  Pontarlier  to  Paris  and  have 
failed  in  the  secret  mission  on  which  I  employed  you — 
namely,  to  bring  me  (without  more  delay  than  such 
which  might  by  force  majeure  arrive)  messages  from 
two  of  my  subjects — I  write  you  this  to  say,  first,  you 
are  no  longer  an  officer  in  my  regiment  of  the  Chevaux- 
Legers  of  Xivernosi ;  secondly,  you  are  at  once  to  quit 
my  kingdom  of  France  and  the  dependencies  thereof, 
wheresoever  situated.  In  which,  desiring  that  you  fail 
not  at  once  to  obey  my  second  behest,  I  pray  that  God 
will  have  you,  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  in  his  holy  keep- 
ing. 

"  Written  at  Paris  the  15th  January,  1688. 
"  Signe  Louis.  Soussigne  Louvois." 

Briefly  St.  Georges  said  to  Louvois  : 

"And  if  I  fail  in  this  second  behest,  what  then? 
What  if  I  refuse  to  quit  France  ?  " 

"  That  I  leave  you  to  imagine.  Sir,  our  interview  is 
at  an  end  ; "  and  he  rang  a  bell  as  he  spoke,  and  when 
it  was  answered  by  a  gorgeous  footman,  said :  . 

"  Escort  this  gentleman  to  the  courtyard." 


130  IN*   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

St.  Georges,  however,  made  no  sign  of  following  the 
servant,  but,  instead,  advanced  a  step  closer  to  Louvois, 
so  that  when  he  stood  nearer  to  him  than  he  had  hith- 
erto done,  the  latter  gave  unmistakable  signs  of  appre- 
hension. Yet,  seeing  that  there  was  no  threatening 
appearance  on  the  other's  face  and  that  his  sword  hung 
idle  and  untouched  by  his  side,  he  said : 

"  You  do  not  hear  me,  sir,  it  would  seem.  Our 
interview  is  at  an  end." 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  St.  Georges,  very  calmly.  "  You 
have  delivered  your  decision — I  refuse  to  believe  it  is 
the  king's.  And  until  I  receive  it  from  his  own  lips,  I 
shall  neither  quit  Paris  nor  France." 

"You  will  not?" 

"  I  will  not." 

"  So,"  replied  Louvois  in  a  harsh  tone,  "  that  is  your 
decision."  Then  changing  his  tone  to  one  which,  per- 
haps, he  thought  more  effective — a  gentler,  more  subtle 
tone — he  said  :  "  You  are,  I  think,  unwise.  The  king 
will  not  see  you ;  and — meanwhile — he  can  find  means 
to  exercise  his  authority,  to  have  his  orders  executed." 

"  The  king  will  see  me,  I  think.  Monsieur  Louvois, 
I  have  a  petition  to  present  to  his  Majesty." 

"  A  petition  ! " 

"  Against  three  of  his  subjects,  all  of  whom,  as  I  do 
believe  before  God,  have  been  engaged  in  a  most  foul 
attempt  against  me  and  my  child.  Monsieur  le  min- 
istre,  shall  I  mention  the  names  of  those  subjects  of  the 
king?"  and  his  eye  glanced  at  the  servant  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  be  silent,"  replied  Louvois ;  "  also  I  bid  you 
beware  what  you  say,  what  do.  Monsieur  St.  Georges," 
he  continued,  breaking  out  into  one  of  those  heats  of 
rage  which  were  usual  with  him,  while,  even  as  he  did 
so,  he  roughly  motioned  the  servant  at  the  door  to  quit 


THE   MINISTER  OF   WAR.  131 

the  room. — "  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  do  you  know  the 
deadly  peril  in  which  you  stand  ?  Do  you  know,  I  say  ? 
If  it  pleases  me  I  have  enough  authority  to  commit  you 
to  the  Bastille  to-night,  to  Vincennes,  to  Bicetre — the 
power  to  arrest  you  here  in  this  room.  If  I  summon 
that  servant  again,  a  file  of  mousquetaires  will  be  sent 
for ;  if  I  touch  this  bell " — and  he  pointed  to  another 
than  the  one  which  he  had  already  rung — "they  will 
appear.  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  will  you  quit  Paris  to- 
night and  France  directly  afterward,  or  shall  I  call  in 
the  soldiers  ?  " 

"  Call  in  the  soldiers,"  the  other  replied,  now  thor- 
oughly desperate,  "  or  the  servant,  or  as  many  of  your 
following  as  you  choose !  Only — ere  you  do  so  hear 
me,"  and  he  raised  his  hand  in  so  authoritative  a  man- 
ner that  Louvois,  who  had  made  a  step  toward  the  bell, 
paused  in  astonishment.  Then  St.  Georges  continued : 
"  I  am  resolved  to  obtain  an  audience  of  the  king  to- 
night, and  can  do  so  if  not  thwarted.  My  charger  is 
fleeter  than  the  horses  of  his  state  carriage ;  I  can  reach 
Marly  as  soon  as  he.  To-day  is  Thursday,  le  jour  des 
audiences  iconnues  ;  it  is  my  chance.  Now,  monsieur, 
shall  I  see  the  king  to-night  unmolested,  unprevented 
by  you,  or  shall  I  be  dragged  before  him  an  assassin  to 
plead  my  cause?  A  murderer,  but  a  righteous  one?" 

"  An  assassin — a  murderer !  "  exclaimed  Louvois, 
stepping  back,  while  his  face  blanched.  "  Explain  your- 
self." 

"  Then  listen — and — abstain  from  that  bell  till  you 
have  heard  me  " — seeing  that  the  other's  eye  roved  to- 
ward it.  "  I  intend,"  speaking  rapidly,  "  to  see  the 
king  to-night  or  in  the  morning  at  latest,  and  to  tell 
him  of  the  foul  plot  of  which  an  officer  of  his  chevaux- 
legers  has  been  the  victim ;  to  ask  him  if,  bearing  this 


132  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

about  me  " — and  he  produced  from  his  breast  the  letter 
ordering  him  to  leave  Pontarlier  and  travel  to  Paris  " — 
he  approves  of  the  manner  in  which  I  have  been  spied 
upon,  tracked,  nigh  done  to  death,  and  robbed  of  my 
most  precious  treasure,  my  child ;  to  sue  for  permis- 
sion to  seek  out  those  who  have  done  this  thing  and 
bring  them  at  last  to  justice.  And,  M.  de  Louvois,  I 
tell  you  face  to  face  and  man  to  man  that,  if  you  ap- 
proach that  bell,  summon  your  soldiers  until  I  am  out- 
side this  door,  they  shall  find  you  a  dead  man  when 
they  open  it !  Once  outside  I  can  answer  for  myself. 
Now  choose ! " 

And  as  he  spoke  his  right  hand  went  round  to  his 
sword-hilt,  while  his  left  raised  the  scabbard,  so  that  the 
blade  could  easily  be  drawn. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PASQUEDIEU ! 

ST.  GEORGES  was  not,  however,  destined  to  arrive  at 
Marly  on  that  night,  nor  to  see  Louis  and  lay  his  story 
before  him. 

On  quitting  Louvois  he  made  his  way  swiftly  along 
the  corridor  leading  from  the  chamber  on  the  ground 
floor  in  which  he  had  been  received  to  the  courtyard,  no 
interruption  being  attempted,  as  was  natural  enough, 
considering  that  he  was  leaving  instead  of  seeking  to 
enter  the  building.  The  soldiers,  gendarmerie  and  the 
Suisses  as  well  as  the  Mousquetaires  Gris — whose  turn 
it  was  at  the  present  moment  to  be  in  attendance  at  the 
Louvre — were  lounging  about  the  guard  room  and  the 


PASQUEDIEU!  133 

great  gateway,  and  they  not  only  did  not  offer  any  oppo- 
sition to  his  passage,  but,  instead,  seeing  about  him  the 
signs  of  a  cavalry  officer — the  gorget,  long  cut-and- 
thrust  sword,  great  boots,  and  gantlets — saluted  him. 

Therefore  he  passed  out  into  the  street — since  known 
in  the  present  century  as  the  Rue  de  Rivoli — and  re- 
gained his  horse  from  the  guet  in  whose  custody  he  had 
left  it. 

That  he  recognised  the  danger — the  awful  danger 
— in  which  he  had  now  placed  himself,  who  can  doubt? 
He  was  a  soldier,  and  he  had  threatened  the  assassina- 
tion of  the  chief — under  the  king — of  the  army.  More- 
over, he  was  a  soldier  who  had  just  been  dismissed  from 
that  army  for  failing  in  his  duty,  for  allowing  private 
affairs — harrowing  as  they  were  ! — to  come  between  him 
and  that  duty.  Now  he  was  cooler ;  he  became  more 
clear  sighted ;  he  knew  that  he  had  done  a  thing  which 
would  destroy  any  claim  that  he  might  make  for  the 
king's  sympathy  with  him. 

"  I  am  ruined,"  he  murmured,  looking  up  and  down 
the  street,  not  knowing  which  way  to  direct  his  horse's 
steps ;  "  have  ruined  myself.  Louis  will  never  forgive 
this  when  he  hears  Louvois's  story — never  see  me  nor 
hear  me.  Fool,  fool  that  I  am !  I  have  destroyed 
everything — above  all,  my  one  chance  of  regaining 
Dorine  ! " 

What  was  he  to  do?  That  was  the  question  he 
asked  himself.  He  had,  it  was  true,  avoided  instant 
arrest  within  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  but  how  long 
could  he  avoid  arrest  in  whatever  part  of  Paris  he  might 
endeavour  to  shelter  himself  now  ? 

"  What  have  other  men  done,"  he  pondered,  "  placed 
as  I  am — as  I  have  placed  myself  ?  What  shall  I,  a  bro- 
ken, ruined  soldier,  do?  What?  what?  Turn  bully, 


134  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

as  he  'accused  me  of  being,  and  cutthroat,  bravo,  or 
thief — haunter  of  gambling  hells  and  tripots?  No !  no  ! 
no !  I  am  a  gentleman,  have  always  lived  like  one ;  so 
let  me  continue  to  the  end.  Yet,  what  to  do  now  ?  " 

He  threaded  his  way  through  the  streets,  still  filled 
with  their  crowds  of  saltimbanques  and  quacks,  though 
the  fashionable  world,  having  seen  Le  Roi  Soleil,  had 
gone  or  was  going  home,  for  the  wintry  evening  was 
setting  in.  And  as  he  rode  slowly,  for  his  poor  beast 
was  now  quite  spent,  he  tried  to  think  of  what  he  should 
do — go  to  Marly  at  once,  that  evening,  as  he  had  said  to 
Louvois  (although  with  scarcely  the  intention  of  doing 
so,  since  he  doubted  seeing  the  king  without  prepara- 
tion), or  find  a  roof  for  himself  and  a  stall  for  his  horse 
for  the  night. 

Then  he  decided  suddenly,  promptly,  that  the  for- 
mer was  what  he  would  do.  If  he  could  get  the  king's 
ear  first,  before  Louvois,  he  might  save  himself.  Louis 
was  great  of  heart,  in  spite  of  his  childish  belief  in  his 
kingly  attributes,  of  his  love  of  splendour,  and  his  van- 
ity. Who  could  tell  ?  A  word  with  him — above  all,  a 
word  breathed  as  to  whom  St.  Georges  believed  himself 
to  be — and  he  was  safe.  His  father  had  been  Louis's 
companion ;  he  would  not  slay  the  son.  Safe — even 
though  dismissed  the  army  and  stripped  of  his  com- 
mission— able  to  stay  in  France,  to  return  to  Troyes,  to 
seek  and  find  his  darling  again  ! 

He  was  resolved  ;  he  would  go  to  Marly  that  night 

Only — how  to  get  there.  Marly  lay  beyond  Ver- 
sailles, four  leagues  from  Paris,  and  his  horse  could  go 
no  further.  The  marvel  was  that  it  had  done  so  much, 
and  it  was  only  by  the  most  assiduous  care  and  merci- 
ful treatment — by  sometimes  walking  mile  after  mile  by 
its  side,  and  by  resting  it  hourly — that  St.  Georges  had 


PASQUEDIEU!  135 

been  able  to  assist  it  to  reach  Paris.  Now  it  could  do 
no  more. 

However,  ere  long  he  espied  an  ecurie  and  found 
that  the  owner  had  horses  for  hire,  while  one,  a  red 
roan  with  a  shifty  eye  and  bright-blooded  nostril,  took 
St.  Georges's  fancy.  He  knew  a  good  horse  the  moment 
he  saw  one,  and  read  by  this  creature's  points  that  it 
would  be  troublesome  for  the  first  mile,  and  then  carry 
him  swiftly  for  the  remainder  of  his  journey.  So,  leav- 
ing his  own  horse — though  not  before  he  had  seen  it 
attended  to,  fed,  and  rubbed  down,  and  taken  into  a 
comfortable,  fresh -littered  stall — he  set  out  once  more, 
tired,  worn,  and  travel-sore  as  he  was,  for  his  fresh  des- 
tination. Yet  he  knew  his  object,  if  he  could  attain  it, 
would  be  worth  a  hundred  times  the  extra  fatigue. 
And  when  it  was  attained  he  could  rest.  Time  enough 
then. 

The  red  roan  behaved  exactly  as  he  expected  it 
would  :  it  first  of  all  bounded  half  across  the  road  when 
once  he  was  in  the  saddle,  knocking  down  a  scara- 
mouche  and  a  toothd rawer  in  doing  so — the  latter, 
fortunately,  having  no  customer  in  his  hands  at  the  mo- 
ment; it  next  proceeded  sideways  up  the  street,  and 
then,  finding  it  had  a  master  to  deal  with,  danced  along 
in  a  canter  until  the  West  Gate  of  Paris  was  reached, 
after  which,  and  being  now  sure  that  its  exuberance  was 
useless,  it  settled  down  into  a  long,  easy  stride,  and  bore 
its  rider  as  smoothly  as  a  carriage  might  toward  his  goal. 

The  moon,  which  a  few  nights  back  had  shown  be- 
neath its  young  rays  the  corpse  hanging  on  the  gibbet 
outside  the  city  of  Troyes,  lit  up  now  the  road  along 
which  he  passed,  disturbing  on  his  way  sometimes  a 
deer  in  a  thicket,  sometimes  a  scurrying  rabbit — they 
disturbing,  too,  the  fiery  creature  he  bestrode,  and 


136  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

frightening  it  into  a  swifter  pace.  Still,  each  moment 
brought  him  nearer  to  his  destination,  to  the  arbiter  in 
whose  hands  his  destiny  was  held ;  and,  for  the  rest,  he 
sat  like  a  rock  upon  its  back.  Its  gambades  could  not 
unseat  him. 

So  the  twelve  English  miles  were  nearly  passed ;  he 
was  on  the  new  road  that  branched  off  to  Marly — the 
strangest  route  that  any  man  living  in  those  days  ever, 
perhaps,  rode  along.  On  either  side  it  was  bordered  by 
small  forests  of  enormous  trees,  mostly  covered  with 
dead  branches,  since  these  trees  had  died  unnaturally 
long  months  ago,  when  transported  from  Compiegne  to 
where  they  now  stood.  Also  he  saw  beneath  the  moon's 
gleams  fountains  from  which  no  water  could  be  forced 
to  flow — great  basins  to  which  water  could  not  be 
brought,  or  only  brought  by  depriving  Versailles  of  its 
natural  supply.  Louis  had  thought  that  he  could  force 
Nature — uproot  trees  from  one  spot,  where  they  had 
flourished  for  a  hundred  years  and  cause  them  to  flour- 
ish equally  well  in  another;  had  imagined  that  even 
the  waters  on  which  his  gondolas,  brought  from  Venice, 
might  float,  could  be  forced  into  existence  at  his  com- 
mand. It  was  a  monstrous  impertinence  offered  to 
Nature,  and  it  cost  him  four  million  and  a  half  of  livres, 
with  but  little  profit  to  any  but  the  frogs  and  toads. 

There  rose  now  before  his  eyes — where  the  road 
branched  off  in  different  directions,  on  the  right  to 
Versailles,  and,  a  little  to  the  left,  to  Marly — the  white- 
washed walls  of  an  auberge  known  as  Le  Bon  Pasteur, 
a  place  soon  to  be  pulled  down,  since  Louis  had  bought 
out  the  owner,  and  was  about  to  build  a  pavilion  upon 
it  But  it  stood  up  to  this  time  untouched,  as  it  had 
done  since  the  days  of  Henri  III — long,  low,  thatched, 
and  weather-beaten,  three  old  poplar  trees  in  front  of  it, 


PASQUEDIEU!  137 

a  mounting-block  also,  and,  of  course,  the  usual  heap  of 
filth  by  its  side  where  the  stables  were. 

Approaching  it,  he  felt  the  roan  stagger  beneath 
him,  halt  in  its  strides,  then  falter ;  and,  shrewd  horse- 
man as  he  was,  knew  that  it  had  either  cast  a  shoe,  or 
had  got  a  stone  in  one.  And  as  he  dismounted  close 
by  the  inn,  though  still  some  twoscore  yards  from  the 
mounting-block,  he  heard  behind  him  the  clatter  of 
other  hoofs  coming  on,  and  the  light  laugh  of  a  woman, 
also  the  deeper  tones  of  a  man. 

"  Pasquedieu  !  "  he  heard  the  latter  say — and  started 
both  at  the  exclamation  and  the  voice — "  you  may  laugh, 
ma  mie,  yet  I  tell  you  'tis  so.  He  will  marry  her,  spend 
her  money  on  other  women  as  I  spend  mine  on  you — 
Morbleu !  whom  have  we  here  ?  "  and  the  man  riding 
along  the  road  with  his  female  companion  pulled  up  his 
own  horse,  as  the  woman  did  hers,  on  seeing  another 
traveller  dismounted  by  the  side  of,  and  examining,  his 
animal. 

"  Whom  ?  "  exclaimed  that  traveller,  looking  up — 
"  whom  ?  One  perhaps  whom  you  know.  One  whose 
name  is  Georges  St.  Georges."  Then,  vaulting  back 
into  his  saddle — not  meaning  to  be  taken  at  a  disadvan- 
tage— he  bent  forward  and  looked  into  the  newcomer's 
face.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  that  name  before,  mon- 
sieur ?  "  he  asked. 

The  face  into  which  he  gazed  was  that  of  a  young, 
good-looking  man,  close  shaven  and  with  gray  eyes  that 
looked  at  him,  as  he  thought,  with  terror.  He  was  well 
dressed,  too,  in  a  riding  costume  of  the  period,  while  the 
woman  who  sat  her  horse,  peering  at  him  out  of  the  eye- 
lets of  her  mask,  was  also  smartly  arrayed  in  a  female 
riding  coat  of  the  day,  her  head  covered  with  a  hood. 

"  Answer,  monsieur,"  said  St.  Georges. 
10 


138  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Never,"  the  other  replied.  "  How  should  I  know 
the  name  of  every — person — I  meet  on  the  road  ?  " 

St.  Georges  bent  forward  over  his  saddle  so  that  his 
own  face  was  now  nearer  by  a  foot  to  the  man  with  the 
gray  eyes  ;  then  he  said  : 

"  Monsieur  de  Koquemaure,  you  are  a  liar !  And 
more,  a  thief,  a  kidnapper;  also,  a  would-be  assassin. 
I  know  you  and  this,  your  wanton,  here.  You  have  to 
answer  to  me  to-night  for  all  you  have  done  against  me 
and  mine  in  the  past  two  weeks." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  he  heard  the  woman  hiss  beneath  her 
mask.  "  Kill  him,  Raoul,  kill  him !  God !  that  you 
should  let  him  live  and  utter  such  things ! "  And  as 
she  so  hissed  she  leaned  down  and  struck  at  his  face 
with  her  riding  whip. 

"  Hound  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  apply  that  word  to 
me?  Tome?" 

"  The  woman  speaks  well,"  St.  Georges  said,  warding 
off  the  blow  with  his  arm  while  his  eye  rested  on  her  for 
a  moment;  "it  is  a  matter  of  killing.  Either  you  or  I 
have  to  be  killed.  To-night !  Do  you  hear,  or  are  you 
struck  dumb  with  fear?" 

"  No,"  the  other  replied,  at  last,  with  amazement. 
"  Who  are  you  who,  under  a  name  I  know  not,  dare  to 
assault  me  thus  with  such  opprobrious  words  ?  Nay," 
turning  to  the  masked  woman,  who  was  again  mutter- 
ing in  his  ear,  "  have  no  fear.  I  will  have  his  blood  for 
it.  If  he  is  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  can  cross  swords, 
we  fight  ere  another  hour  passes." 

"Also,"  St.  Georges  broke  in,  "you  are,  I  perceive,  a 
coward,  besides  the  other  things  I  have  charged  you 
with.  You  know  who  I  am  well  enough.  If  not — if 
your  memory  is  as  treacherous  as  your  courage  seems 
poor,  let  me  remind  you.  I  am  the  man  whom  you  at- 


PASQUED1EU!  139 

tacked  with  five  others  at  Aignay-le-Duc ;  the  man 
whose  child  you  sought  to  slay ;  the  father  of  the  child 
whom  your  woman  and  your  man-servant  seized  away 
from  one  who  had  it  in  his  possession,  and  whom  they 
slew  also,  you  not  appearing  on  the  scene.  You  are 
careful  of  yourself,  Monsieur  de  Roquemaure  !  In  the 
first  treacherous  attack  you  shielded  your  head  as  none 
other's  head  was  shielded  ;  in  the  second  you  employed 
a  woman  and  a  man-servant  to  do  that  which,  perhaps, 
you  feared  to  do  yourself." 

Every  word  he  uttered  was  studied  insult,  every 
word  was  weighed  before  it  was  delivered,  substituted 
for  any  other  which  rose  to  his  lips  if  not  deemed  by 
him  sufficiently  galling.  He  had  sworn  to  kill  this  man 
if  ever  he  encountered  him  again,  and  he  meant  to  kill 
him  to-night  now  he  had  met  him.  Therefore,  since  he 
was  resolved  he  should  have  no  loophole  of  escape  from 
crossing  swords  with  him,  he  so  phrased  his  remarks 
that  he  must  fight  or  acknowledge  himself  the  veriest 
poltroon  that  breathed. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  if  you  still  value  your  hide 
so  much  that  you  dare  not  meet  me,  now  at  once,  tell 
me  where  you  and  this  woman — if  it  be  the  same,  as  I 
suppose — have  hidden  my  child ;  lead  me  to  her,  and 
then  you  shall  go  free.  Only  choose,  and  choose  at 
once." 

He  heard  the  woman  mutter  to  De  Roquemaure  : 
"Who  is  the  woman  he  speaks  of,  who,  Raoul?"  while 
also  he  saw  her  eyes  glisten  again  through  the  mask ; 
then,  as  he  strove  to  catch  her  companion's  reply,  that 
companion  turned  on  him,  and  said  : 

"  Monsieur  St.  Georges,  as  you  term  yourself,  be 
very  sure  I  intend  to  slay  you  to-night.  I  do  not  know 
you,  but  your  insults  to  me  and  to — this — lady,  although 


14:0  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  ntterances  of  a  madman,  have  to  be  wiped  out  at 
once.  As  to  the  child  you  mention,  and  its  kidnapping 
by  a  servant  of  mine  and  a  woman — bah  ! — I  know  not 
of  what  you  speak." 

"  Do  you  deny  that  you  are  Monsieur  de  Roque- 
maure  ?  " 

"  I  neither  deny  nor  assert.  Under  that  name  you 
have  chosen  to  waylay  and  insult  me.  Under  that 
name,  since  you  will  have  it,  I  intend  to  have  repara- 
tion." 

"Do  you  deny  the  assault  at  Aignay-le-Duc ? " 

"  I  deny  nothing,  assert  nothing." 

"  So  be  it,"  St.  Georges  said.  "  I  have  made  no 
mistake.  Yon  are  the  man.  Your  voice,  your  ex- 
pression condemn  you.  Your  face,  though  you  have 
shaved  off  your  beard  " — and  he  saw  the  other  start  as  he 
mentioned  this — "  condemns,  convicts  you.  Deny,  there- 
fore, these  two  things  or  draw  your  sword.  We  have 
wasted  enough  time." 

"  We  have,"  the  other  answered,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
dismounted  from  hia  horse,  St.  Georges  doing  the  same. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  KILL   HIM    DEAD,    RAOUL  !  " 

THE  duel  was  not,  however,  to  take  place  in  the  road, 
since  at  that  moment,  and  when  both  men  were  prepar- 
ing to  draw  their  swords,  the  inn  door  opened  and  two 
persons  came  forth — one  evidently  the  landlord,  the 
other  a  customer  to  whom  he  was  saying  "  Good-night." 
Then,  as  he  was  about  to  re-enter  his  house,  he  saw 


"KILL   HIM  DEAD,   RAOUL!" 

under  the  rays  of  the  moon  the  three  others  in  the  road 
— the  two  men  close  together  and  the  woman  still 
mounted — and  came  forward  toward  ihem,  peering  in- 
quiringly in  front  of  him. 

"Do  messieurs  and  madame  require  any  refresh- 
ment ?  "  he  asked,  noticing  that  two  of  the  company 
were  well  and  handsomely  dressed,  while  the  third 
looked  like  an  officer.  "  My  inn  offers  good  accommo- 
dation for  man  and  beast.  Will  monsieur  and  madame 
not  enter  ?  " 

"  Curse  you,  no  ! "  De  Eoquemaure  said ;  "  may  we 
not  tarry  a  moment  on  the  road  without  being  pestered 
thus  ?  Begone,  fellow,  and  leave  us  !  " 

But  St.  Georges  interposed,  saying : 

"  On  the  contrary,  if  you  have  a  good  room  where 
we  can  rest  awhile  and  this  noble  lady"  and  he  saw  the 
woman's  eyes  sparkle — perhaps  with  hate ! — as  he  spoke, 
"  can  be  fittingly  received,  we  will  enter.  My  horse  has 
cast  a  shoe ;  have  you  a  farrier  near  the  house  who  can 
reshoe  it  ?  It  can  be  done  while  we  drink  a  bottle." 

"  I  am  one  myself,"  the  innkeeper  replied.  "  Mon- 
sieur may  confide  his  horse  to  me.  It  is  but  a  few 
moments'  job,  and  the  fire  in  the  forge  is  still  alive.  As 
for  the  inn  and  the  wine — liein  /  both  are  good  ;  I  have 
a  large  room,  and  a  bottle  of  Brecquiny  fit  for  a  king." 

"  Lead  us  to  it,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  then  attend  to 
the  horse ;  "  and  as  he  spoke  he  threw  the  reins  over  the 
hook  fixed  in  the  tree  by  the  mounting-block.  "  Come," 
he  said,  addressing  De  Roquemaure  and  the  woman  in  a 
tone  which  would  awaken  no  suspicion  in  the  innkeeper's 
mind.  "  Shall  I  assist  madame  to  alight  or  will  you  ?  " 

Madame,  however,  slipped  off  the  horse  by  herself 
lightly  enough,  brushing  by  St.  Georges  as  she  did  so 
and  whispering  in  his  ear,  "  If  I  could  help  him  to  kill 


142  IN  THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

you,  I  would  ! "  and  so  they  entered  the  inn,  St.  Georges 
going  last.  He  was  a  cautious  man,  this  chevau-leycr, 
and  he  had  seen  the  little  stiletto — or  wedding-knife,  as 
it  was  called  then — in  her  girdle ;  he  did  not  want  the 
owner  of  those  savage,  glistening  eyes  to  stab  him  in  the 
back.  She  looked  capable  of  doing  it,  he  thought,  judg- 
ing by  the  sparkle  they  made  behind  the  mask,  and  of 
stabbing  the  innkeeper  afterward  to  hide  her  guilt. 

The  man  led  them  into  a  long,  low,  whitewashed 
room  at  the  end  of  a  corridor — all  three  noticing  that  it 
was  some  distance  from  the  inhabited  part  of  the  house, 
so  that  interruption  was  unlikely — a  room  in  which  a 
fire  burnt  low. 

"  Bring  the  wine,"  St.  Georges  said  to  the  man  after 
he  had  lit  the  candles  in  their  sconces,  "  and  be  quick 
about  it.  We  have  no  time  to  tarry  here." 

Five  minutes  later  the  bottle  of  Brecquiny  was  on 
the  table  with  three  long  tapering  glasses  by  its  side ;  the 
man  had  made  up  the  fire  so  that  it  burnt  brightly,  and 
they  were  alone ;  and  St.  Georges,  having  bidden  him 
not  interrupt  them  until  they  called,  walked  to  the 
door,  locked  it,  and,  coming  back  to  the  table,  placed 
the  key  upon  it. 

"  There  will  be  two  leave  this  room,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  There  is  the  key  for  those  who  will  require  it. — Ma- 
dame is  comfortable,  I  trust,"  glancing  at  the  woman 
who  was  seated  at  the  table,  her  elbows  on  it,  and  her 
face  in  her  hands,  while  still  the  eyes  glanced  through 
the  holes  of  the  mask  at  him. — "  Now,  Monsieur  de 
Roquemaure,  we  have  sufficient  space  for  our  sword  play 
here.  I  am  at  your  service,"  and  he  unsheathed  his 
weapon. 

The  table  was  close  to  the  fire,  a  deep  chair  on  cither 
side  of  it ;  two  smaller  chairs,  in  one  of  which  the  woman 


"KILL  HIM   DEAD,  RAOUL  !  "  14.3 

sat,  against  the  table ;  beyond  it  a  space  of  twenty  square 
feet  of  coarse  tiled  floor — enough  for  any  pair  of  duel- 
lists to  kill  each  other  in  ! 

"  You  force  this  on  me,"  De  Eoquemaure  said,  rising 
and  removing  the  cloak  he  wore,  and  speaking  between 
thin,  almost  bloodless  lips ;  "  whether  your  blood  or  mine 
be  shed,  it  is  upon  your  own  head,"  and  he  drew  his 
sword  too. 

"  Not  so,"  St.  Georges  replied.  "  Deny  that  you  led 
the  attack  on  me,  on  my  child  and  my  comrade  at  Aig- 
nay-le-Duc  ;  deny  that  it  was  your  servant — that  it  was 
your  livery  he  wore — accompanied  by  some  woman,  if 
not  this  one,  who  slew  the  Bishop  of  Lodeve's  servant " 
— once  more  the  other  started,  as  he  had  started  when 
accused  of  having  removed  his  beard — "deny  this,  I  say, 
and  I  break  my  sword  across  my  knee — I  leave  myself 
unarmed  and  defenceless,  at  your  mercy  to  slay  me  here 
for  the  words  I  have  spoken." 

Again  from  the  now  absolutely  livid  lips  there  came 
the  same  words,  or  almost  the  same,  he  had  previously 
uttered. 

"  I  deny  nothing — I  assert  nothing,"  and  he  ad- 
vanced past  the  table  to  where  St.  Georges  stood,  weapon 
in  hand. 

"  So  be  it !  Yet,  for  the  last  time,  ere  it  is  too  late, 
answer  me  one  question  and  I  will  not  force  you  to  this 
encounter  to-night.  Tell  me  where  my  child  is,  let  me 
regain  possession  of  her,  and  a  month  hence,  on  my 
honour  as  a  soldier,  I  meet  you  again,  and,  if  you  desire 
it,  give  you  satisfaction." 

"  I  do  not  know  where  your  child  is,"  De  Roque- 
maure  muttered  hoarsely.  "  And  for  your  honour  as  a 
soldier — you  are  a  broken  one.  A  man  dismissed  the 
army  has  no  honour  left." 


IN   TIIE  DAY  OP  ADVERS1TF. 

"Enough!"  said  St.  Georges;  "you  knew  that — 
knew,  not  that  I  am  broken,  but  that  I  was  to  be 
broken  !  Now  I  understand  who  two  of  my  enemies  are 
for  sure.  Thus  I  dispose  of  one.  En  garde!  " 

"  Kill  him  !  "  he  heard  the  woman  hiss  again  as  they 
commenced.  "  Kill  him  dead,  Raoul ! " 

A  moment  later  they  were  engaged,  each  seeking  the 
other's  life.  And  each  knew  that  nothing  but  his  death 
would  satisfy  his  adversary. 

Their  weapons  scarcely  made  any  noise,  so  quietly 
the  one  stole  upon  the  other,  as  point  pressed  point,  and 
through  the  swords  the  power  of  their  wrists  made 
itself  felt.  Once  De  Roquemaure  lunged  savagely,  but 
the  thrust  was  parried  and  returned — dangerously  so. 
The  point  of  St.  Georges's  weapon  slit  his  sleeve  as,  like 
an  adder's  tongue,  it  darted  forth.  Then  the  other 
drew  back  and  fought  more  carefully,  though  the  beads 
of  sweat  stood  on  his  white  forehead  now.  And  St. 
Georges,  observing  them,  knew  that  he  held  him  safe. 
His  nerve  was  gone  already — the  nearness  of  that  thrust 
had  shattered  it ! 

The  woman,  looking  on — her  face  also  as  white  as  a 
corpse's — was,  perhaps,  the  strangest  figure  of  the  three. 
Her  eyes  shone  like  coals  through  the  mask-holes  now 
— her  figure  shook  all  over ;  one  hand  clutched  the 
coarse  cover  on  the  table  in  a  mass  of  folds ;  the  other 
tremblingly  played  with  the  hilt  of  her  little  dagger. 
And  the  Brecquiny  being  near  her,  she  more  than  once 
released  the  table  cover  to  pour  out  a  glass  full,  drain 
it  a  draught,  throw  down  the  glass,  and  glare  at  the 
combatants  again. 

Once,  too,  she  shrieked  aloud  as  a  second  time  St. 
Georges's  weapon,  lunging  full  at  the  other's  breast,  was 
just  caught  by  the  hilt  of  De  Roquemaure's  sword  and 


"KILL  HIM  DEAD,   RAOUL!"  H5 

parried,  though  not  without  tearing  from  his  breast  a 
piece  of  the  lace  from  his  cravat.  And  she  struck  her- 
self on  the  mouth  with  her  clinched  hand — so  that  her 
lips  were  bloody  a  moment  after — as  though  in  rage 
with  herself  for  having  done  aught  to  alarm  the  house. 

"  You  are  doomed,"  St.  Georges  said  to  De  Roque- 
maure  in  a  low  voice,  driving  him  back  toward  the 
wall,  so  that  now  the  latter  faced  up  the  room  while  the 
former's  back  was  toward  the  table — "  doomed  !  I  have 
you  fast.  Acknowledge  all,  or  by  the  God  above  us  I 
slay  you  in  the  next  pass ! " 

De  Roquemaure  made  no  answer;  doggedly  he 
fought — a  horrible  spectacle.  Another  thrust  of  St. 
Georges's  was,  however,  also  parried — the  blade  knocked 
nervously  up  by  the  affrighted  man — tearing  a  piece  of 
flesh  from  De  Roquemaure's  cheek,  from  which  the 
blood  ran  down  on  to  what  was  left  of  the  cravat ;  the 
eyes  glared  like  a  hunted  animal's  ;  the  mouth  was  half 
open. 

It  almost  required  St.  Georges's  memory  of  his  lost 
Dorine,  of  the  manner  in  which  they  had  aimed  under 
his  arm  at  her — so  appalled  did  his  adversary  appear — 
to  prevent  him  from  sparing  the  craven,  from  disarming 
him,  and  letting  him  go  forth  a  whipped  and  beaten 
hound.  -But  he  remembered  the  wrong  done  him,  the 
cruel,  dastardly  attempts  on  the  child's  life — and  his 
blood  was  up.  De  Roquemaure  should  die.  "  The  wolf 
was  face  to  face  with  him  " — at  that  moment  he  recalled 
the  marquise's  words — he  would  slay  him. 

Behind  his  back  the  other  could  see  the  woman — 
even  as  he  endeavoured  to  shield  himself  from  thrust 
after  thrust,  and  thought :  "  God !  when  will  it  come  ? 
when  shall  I  feel  the  steel  through  me  ?  " — herself  now 
a  ghastly  sight.  Her  upper  lip  was  drawn  back  in  her 


146  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

frenzy  so  that  her  teeth  were  bare  as  are  a  dog's  that 
pauses  ere  it  snaps ;  she  was  standing  up  trembling,  as 
with  a  palsy,  and  her  mask  had  fallen  off.  And,  in  what 
De  Roquemaure  felt  were  his  last  moments,  he  saw  her 
suddenly  rush  at  the  sconces  and  knock  the  candles  out 
of  them  on  to  the  stone  floor,  where  they  lay  guttering. 
He  supposed  that  she  had  thought  to  disturb  his  dooms- 
man. 

If  she  did  so  think  she  erred.  St.  Georges  heard  the 
crash  of  her  arm  against  the  metal,  but  never  turned 
his  head — to  take  his  eye  off  the  other's  point  would 
have  been  fatal ! — instead,  in  the  light  given  by  the  fire 
he  crept  one  inch  nearer  the  other. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  now,  De  Roquemaure !  "  and  as  he 
spoke  the  other  felt  the  iron  muscles  in  the  man's  wrist 
forcing  his  blade  down  and  down ;  the  point  was  level 
to  his  adversary's  thigh ;  an  instant  more,  and  St. 
Georges's  sword  would  release  his,  would  suddenly 
spring  up  and — a  moment  later — be  through  his  breast. 

In  his  agony  he  shrieked,  "Au  secours,  an  secours!  " 
and  in  a  last  desperate  effort  leaped  aside,  the  weapon 
that  at  that  moment  sought  his  heart  with  a  tremendous 
lunge  piercing  his  arm  alone. 

Another  moment  and  St.  Georges  had  disengaged  it, 
drawn  it  forth,  and  was  about  to  plunge  it  through  the 
craven's  heart — this  time  he  would  not  fail ! — when  he 
heard  the  rustle  of  the  woman's  riding  robe  behind  him, 
he  felt  a  shock,  and  his  arm  instantly  drop  nerveless  by 
his  side ;  the  weapon  fell  from  his  hand,  and  he  sank 
back  heavily  on  the  stone  floor,  the  room  swimming  be- 
fore his  eyes  and  all  becoming  rapidly  dark. 

Roused  by  her  lover's  cry  and  frenzied  by  the  imme- 
diate death  which  she  saw  threatening  him  ;  driven  al- 
most mad  also  by  the  look  of  terror  and  mortal  appre- 


"KILL   HIM  DEAD,  RAOUL  !  "  147 

hension  on  his  face,  she  had  sprung  up  the  room, 
reached  St.  Georges,  and  buried  her  dagger  in  his  back. 
She  had  aimed  under  his  left  shoulder,  where  she  knew 
the  region  of  the  heart  was — it  seemed  her  aim  was 
true !  As  he  fell  to  the  ground  she  knew  that  she  had 
saved  De  Roquemaure.  Yet  her  frenzy  was  not  calmed  ; 
in  an  instant  she  had  seized  the  sword  that  still  was 
grasped  in  her  lover's  nerveless  right  hand,  placed  it  in 
his  left,  and  muttered  swiftly  in  a  voice  he  did  not 
recognise : 

"  Through  his  heart ! — his  heart,  Raoul !  That  way. 
Otherwise  it  will  seem  murder  and  confound  us." 

"  I — I  dare  not,"  the  scared  man  muttered,  shaking 
all  over.  "  I  cannot,  I " 

"  Ldchel  "  and  as  she  hurled  the  epithet  at  him  she 
seized  the  weapon  herself  in  her  own  white  jewelled 
hand  and  drew  it  back  to  plunge  it  through  his  breast 
so  that  it  should  meet  the  wound  behind. 

Yet  that  was  not  to  be.  Even  as  she  raised  the 
sword  the  door  was  burst  violently  open,  and  the  inn- 
keeper, with  two  other  men  and  a  waiting  woman 
rushed  into  the  room. 

"  Grand  Dieu  I "  the  landlord  cried,  shivering  and 
shaking  all  over,  as  he  saw  the  terrible  spectacle  which 
the  place  afforded — St.  Georges  stretched  on  the  floor, 
the  stones  covered  with  blood,  the  other  wounded  man 
leaning  against  the  wall,  the  maddened  woman  with 
the  sword,  which  she  had  dropped  at  their  entrance, 
lying  at  her  feet,  and  the  candles  out — "  Grand  Dieu! 
what  has  been  done  in  my  house?  Murder?" 

At  first  neither  De  Roquemaure  nor  the  panting 
creature  by  his  side  could  answer;  then  the  former 
found  his  tongue,  while  still  the  landlord  and  the  other 
two  men  stared  at  them  and  the  waiting  woman  hid  her 


IN  TUB  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

face  in  her  apron,  not  to  see  the  ghastly  form  on  the 
floor,  and  said :  "  Not  murder,  but  attempted  murder. 
This  man  drew  on  me — with  a  lady  present — would 
have  assassinated  me.  You  see  my  wound,"  and  he 
held  up  his  pierced  arm. 

"  Attempted  murder !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  men, 
he  looking  of  a  very  superior  class  to  that  of  the  laud- 
lord.  "A  strange  attempt;  you  are  young  and  strong 
as  he;  armed,  too,  your  weapon  drawn.  Yet  it  seems  it 
needed  this  also  to  aid  you,"  and  he  stooped  and  picked 
up  the  woman's  toy  dagger.  "  This  demands  explana- 
tion  " 

"  And  shall  be  given  to  those  entitled  to  ask.  I  am 
the  Marquis  de  Roquemaure,  set  upon  and  forced  to  de- 
fend myself  by  this  fellow  who  entrapped  us  here. — 
You,"  turning  to  the  landlord,  "  saw  how  he  caused  us 
to  enter  this  house,  though  I  told  you  we  wanted  noth- 
ing. He  it  was  who  gave  all  the  orders.  For  the  rest, 
he  was  a  disgraced  and  ruined  soldier,  a  common  bravo 
and  bully,  who  deemed  me  the  cause  of  his  punishment. 
I  answer  nothing  further  but  to  the  king  whom  I  serve, 
or  his  representative." 

"He  looks  not  like  a  bravo  or  bully,"  said  the  man 
who  had  spoken  last,  as  he  knelt  down  by  St.  Georges 
and  took  his  wrist  between  his  fingers.  "He  scarce 
seems  that." 

"Is  he  dead? "the  woman  asked  hoarsely  now,  as 
she  bent  down  over  her  victim. 

"  Not  yet.    There  is  still  some  pulse." 

And  even  as  he  spoke,  St.  Georges  opened  his  eyes, 
looked  up  at  him,  and  muttered  once,  "  Dorine  ! " 

Then  the  eyes  closed  again  and  his  hfcad  fell  back  on 
the  other's  arm. 


THE    SECOND    PERIOD. 
CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LA  GALERE  GRANDE  REALE. 

THE  July  sun  blazed  down  upon  the  sea  which  lay 
beneath  it  as  unruffled  as  an  artificial  lake  inland ;  there 
was  no  ripple  on  the  water  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see ; 
above  the  water  to  the  northwest  there  rose  the  chalky 
cliffs  between  Whitby  and  Scarborough — a  white,  hazy 
line  over  which  a  few  fleecy  clouds  were  massed  together. 
Upon  the  water,  three  miles  out  from  those  cliffs,  a  dark 
blot,  which  grew  larger  and  clearer  moment  by  moment, 
and  proved  to  be — when  seen  through  the  perspective 
glasses  of  the  officers  on  board  a  French  galley  which 
was  further  out  to  sea  and  rapidly  retreating  from  the 
English  coast — one  of  King  William's  men-of-war. 

A  French  galley  rapidly  retreating  from  the  English 
coast,  of  the  style  known  as  La  Grande  Reale,  and 
named  L'Idole.  On  board  of  her  six  hundred  and 
seventy  souls,  comprising  a  first  and  second  captain,  a 
lieutenant  and  sublieutenant,  an  ensign,  also  a  major 
general,  some  standard  bearers,  a  commissary  general, 
one  or  two  volunteer  officers,  over  one  hundred  soldiers 
and  seventy  sailors,  a  number  of  subaltern  officers  and 
ship  boys,  and — three  hundred  and  sixty  galley  slaves 
and  sixty  Turkish  slaves. 

149 


150  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

A  life  of  hell  was  this  of  the  galley  to  all  on  board 
her  when  at  sea — even  to  those  in  command  !  Neither 
first  nor  second  captain,  neither  major  nor  commis- 
sary general,  nor  even  volunteer  officers — often  mem- 
bers of  the  oldest  and  most  aristocratic  families  of 
France — could  ever  lie  down  to  sleep  on  board,  for  the 
sufficient  reason  that  in  the  confined  space  there  was  no 
room  for  bed,  cot,  nor  berth.  Rest  had  to  be  taken  by 
these  superiors  either  when  sitting  on  ordinary  chairs 
placed  on  the  poop  cabin,  or  in  armchairs  if  such  were 
on  board — their  clothes  on,  their  arms  by  their  side. 
For  not  only  was  there  no  room  for  anything  in  the 
shape  or  nature  of  a  bed,  but  also  the  galleys  were  rarely 
at  sea  except  in  time  of  open  war,  when  at  any  moment 
they  might  be  engaged  in  action.  Truly,  a  life  of  hell ! 

Yet,  if  to  the  superiors  such  miseries  came  and  had 
to  be  endured ;  such  want  of  sleep,  such  constant  neces- 
sity for  watchfulness,  such  poor,  coarse  food  as  alone  the 
galley  could  find  room  to  carry — bacon,  salt  beef,  salt 
cod,  cheese,  oil,  and  rice,  with  a  small  pot  of  wine  daily, 
being  their  allowance — what  of  those  wretches  who  pro- 
pelled her  when  there  was  no  wind,  the  galley  slaves  ? 
What  was  their  existence  ?  Let  us  see ! 

Bound  to  the  labouring  oar — itself  of  enormous  size 
and  weight,  being  fifty  feet  long — seven  condamnes  to 
each  oar,  they  sat  at  sixty  benches,  thirty  on  each  side, 
four  hundred  and  twenty  men  in  all,  including  Turkish 
slaves.  Naked  they  rowed  for  hours  chained  to  these 
benches — sometimes  for  twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch 
— while  the  comites,  or  overseers,  men  brutal  beyond  all 
thought  and  chosen  for  the  post  because  of  their  natural 
ferocity,  belaboured  their  backs  with  whips  made  of 
twisted  and  knotted  cords.  If  they  fainted  under  these 
continuous  thrashings,  their  backs  were  rubbed  with 


LA  GALORE  GRANDE  R^ALE.  151 

vinegar  and  salt  water  to  revive  them ;  if  they  were 
found  to  have  died  under  their  chastisement,  the  chains 
and  rings  round  their  legs  were  taken  off  and  they  were 
flung  into  the  sea  like  carrion  as  they  were.  Then  an- 
other man  took  their  place,  there  being  always  a  reserve 
of  these  unhappy  creatures. 

To  see  them  would  have  wrung  the  hearts  of  all  but 
those  who  dominated  them.  Their  naked  backs  had 
upon  them  wheals,  sores,  old  and  new,  scars  and  cica- 
trices ;  their  faces  were  burnt  black  from  the  effects  of 
the  suns,  the  diverse  winds,  and  the  sprays  under  which 
and  through  which  they  rowed  en  perpetuite — since 
most  were  doomed  for  life;  their  hair  was  long  and 
matted  with  their  beards,  when  they  were  not  old  men 
who  had  grown  bald  in  their  lifelong  toil  and  misery. 
Moreover,  they  were  nearly  starved,  their  daily  food 
being  twenty-six  ounces  of  coarse  and  often  weevily 
biscuit,  and  four  ounces  of  beans  a  day — or  rather 
"  pigeon  peas  " — with  water.  And  if  any  swooned  from 
their  long  hours  of  rowing  (hours  only  relieved  by  a 
favourable  wind  springing  up,  when  the  small  sails  could 
be  set),  in  contradistinction  to  their  fainting  from  the 
brutalities  of  the  comites,  then  there  was  placed  in  their 
mouths  a  piece  of  bread  moistened  with  salt  water  or 
vinegar,  or  sour  and  sharp  wine,  either  of  which  was 
supposed  to  be  an  excellent  reviver. 

All  were  distinguished  by  numbers  and  none  by 
name,  though,  in  occasional  moments  that  could  be 
snatched  from  under  the  watchful  eyes  and  ears  of  the 
comites,  the  doomed  wretches  could  sometimes  acquaint 
each  other  with  their  names,  former  positions  in  life,  and 
supposed  reasons  for  being  condemned  to  their  perpetual 
slavery.  But  not  often,  for  a  word  spoken  and  over- 
heard brought  terrible  retribution  in  its  train,  especially 


152  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

as  in  nine  times  out  of  ten  religion  was  both  the  cause 
for  which  they  suffered  and  by  which  they  were  pun- 
ished. The  galley  slaves  were  in  general  Protestants 
who  would  not  embrace  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  while 
the  superior  officers  and  the  overseers  were  ardent  pa- 
pists. Yet  there  were  others  who,  in  ordinary  eyes, 
though  not  in  those  of  their  taskmasters,  would  have 
been  deemed  to  be  sunk  in  crimes  worse  than  that  of 
being  Huguenots.  No.  512  was  a  murderer — of  his  own 
father ;  No.  497  had  been  caught  giving  information  to 
England,  he  being  a  fisherman,  of  the  whereabouts  of 
Jean  Bart's  flotilla ;  No.  36  had  cursed  the  king  and 
his  family — a  truly  awful  crime ;  No.  98  had  robbed  a 
church,  and  so  on.  But  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  which 
was  the  king,  or  rather  the  reformed  and  married  wan- 
ton, De  Maintenon,  none  were  so  vile,  none  deserved 
such  bitter  punishment  and  bastinadoing,  and  rubbing 
in  of  vinegar  and  salt  in  their  wounds,  and  starvation, 
as  the  pestilential  heretics. 

The  black  spot  on  the  horizon  grew  larger  to  the 
view  of  the  officers  standing  aft  on  the  coursier,  or  raised 
fore-and-aft  passage  of  the  galley,  which  ran  between 
the  larboard  and  starboard  gangs  of  rowers,  and  across 
which  they  were  hourly  stretched  to  be  bastinadoed  by 
their  fellow-slaves,  the  Turks ;  and  those  officers  by  no 
means  appreciated  the  increasing  size  of  that  spot.  It 
showed  that  the  English  frigate  was  overhauling  the 
French  galley.  The  latter,  low  down  in  the  water 
though  it  was,  and  with  its  two  sails  furled,  had  been 
seen  by  the  former  and  the  pursuit  had  begun.  For- 
tunate for  the  galley,  and  unfortunate  for  the  miserable 
slaves  whose  lives  were  a  curse  to  them,  if  she  escaped 
that  frigate  now  following  it  so  rapidly ! 

"  How  !  row !  "  howled  the  comites,  as  they  rushed  up 


LA  GALERE  GRANDE  REALE.  153 

and  down  the  gangways  of  the  benches,  striking  the 
bare  backs  of  the  vogueurs,  or  row-slaves,  till  they  were 
all  crimson  with  blood.  "  How  !  In  time  !  in  time  ! 
Beware,  all  you,"  cried  one,  as  bench  12  rowed  wildly, 
while  the  lash  fell  on  all  their  backs  in  consequence ; 
"  will  you  impede  the  galley's  course  ?  Carogne  !  "  (a 
common  oath),  "you  wish  the  accursed  English  to  take 
us — foul  Protestants  like  yourselves  !  " 

"  Ay,"  replied  one  slave  on  that  bench,  a  man  known 
as  211 — "  ay.  Pray  God  they  take  us  or  sink  us !  In 
the  next  world  we  shall  not  be  chained,  nor  you  free. 
The  chances  will  be  equal." 

The  lash  fell  on  his  back  as  he  spoke,  raised  a  new 
wheal  to  keep  company  with  the  others  already  there, 
and  then  the  coniite  passed  on,  thrashing  and  belabour- 
ing all  the  others  on  his  side  of  the  ship,  and  howling 
and  bawling  and  blaspheming  at  them. 

Meanwhile  the  black  spot  became  a  large  blur  on  the 
blue  water;  now  her  royals  were  visible,  white  and 
bright  against  the  equally  clear  blue  sky.  She  was  sail- 
ing down  the  galley, 

"  Have  a  care,  211,"  muttered  the  galerien  next  to 
him — "have  a  care.  If  we  escape  the  English  ship  with 
life,  your  existence  will  be  a  greater  hell  than  before  for 
those  words ! " 

211  threw  his  matted  hair  back  from  his  eyes  with  a 
jerk  of  his  head — his  hands  he  could  not  release  from 
the  oar — and  looked  at  his  neighbour.  He  was  a  man 
burnt  black  with  the  sun,  thin,  emaciated,  and  half 
starved.  On  his  shoulders,  where  they  caught  hourly 
the  cords  of  the  comite's  whip,  great  scars,  and  livid — 
as  well  as  raw — wounds ;  yet  still  young  and  with  hand- 
some features. 

"  We  shall  not  escape,"  he  replied.  "  She  gains  on 
11 


IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

us  each  moment.  See ! "  and  as  their  faces  were  naturally 
directed  aft  of  the  galley,  they  could  observe,  through 
the  great  scuttle  by  the  poops,  the  frigate  rising  larger 
each  instant  behind  them. 

"  Better  even  this  than  death,"  said  the  other.  "  We 
know  where  we  are  now,  at  least — who  knows  where  we 
shall  be?  Hist!  he  returns." 

Again  the  comite  ran  along  the  gangway,  dealing  out 
more  blows  and  curses,  each  of  these  men  getting  their 
share.  Then,  when  the  hoarse,  foul  voice  of  the  over- 
seer was  heard  at  the  other  end  of  the  hundred  and 
eighty  feet  long  galore  Grand  Keale,  No.  211  answered 
him. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  death  is  better  than  this.  It  is 
peace  at  least." 

"  You  seek  it — hope  for  it  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  No.  211  replied,  "  pray  for  it.     Hourly ! " 

"What  was  your  crime?"  his  companion  asked. 
They  had  been  chained  together  for  two  days  only,  the 
slave  whose  place  the  questioner  now  filled  having  been 
beaten  to  death,  and  this,  in  the  excitement  of  the 
impending  attack,  was  their  first  opportunity  of  con- 
versing. 

"  Nothing." 

The  other  grinned.  Then  he  exclaimed,  "We  all 
say  that." 

"  Most  of  us  say  true." 

"  It  is  put  about,"  the  other  went  on,  "  that  you  are 
English  yourself,  like  our  pursuers.  Is  that  true?" 

"Partly.  Henceforth,  if  ever  I  escape,  wholly  so. 
That  or  death,  somehow." 

On  the  coursier  there  arose  more  noise  and  confu- 
sion now.  The  English  frigate  was  nearing  them  ;  they 
could  see  with  the  perspective  glasses  her  guns  being 


LA  GALERE  GRANDE  REALE.       155 

run  out  on  the  lower  tiers,  so  as  better  to  sweep  the  gal- 
ley ;  the  course  must  be  altered  or  their  whole  larboard 
side  would  be  raked  when  once  the  frigate  was  on  their 
beam.  Therefore  the  chief  captain  gave  his  orders  for 
the  usual  tactics  of  the  galleys  in  an  engagement  to  be 
pursued — they  were  to  turn  and  "  ram  "  the  pursuers. 

The  first  vessels  of  comparative  modern  warfare  to 
utilize  what  is  now  known  as  the  "  ram "  were  the 
French  galleys,  they  having  at  their  prow  or  stern  a 
long  eperon,  as  it  was  termed,  projecting  from  the  deck 
above  the  water,  and  occupying  the  place  of  a  bowsprit. 
Being  far  lower  in  the  water  than  the  ship,  this  spur 
was,  consequently,  in  the  exact  position  where  it  could 
inflict  terrible  damage ;  it  struck  a  vessel  of  any  size  be- 
low the  water  line.  And  to  add  to  the  injury  which  a 
galley  could  do  in  thus  advancing  to  meet  an  enemy 
"  end  on,"  there  were  behind  this  spur  two  huge  gun 
forts  in  which  were  five  bronze  cannons  of  large  calibre. 
As  they  rammed,  therefore,  propelled  by  hundreds  of 
galley  slaves,  they  fired  also,  and  as  the  charge  used  was 
that  known  as  a  mitraille — viz.,  a  metal  case  filled  with 
balls  of  various  sizes  and  pieces  of  iron,  which  exploded 
as  it  struck,  the  wounds  inflicted  in  any  ship  were  ter- 
ribly effective.  Moreover,  the  galley  which  advanced 
this  presented  but  a  small  object  for  attack,  the  breadth 
or  beam  being  never  more  than  forty-eight  feet  at  the 
broadest. 

The  order  was  given,  the  larboard  side  galeriens 
backed  water,  the  starboard  side  pulled  lustily,  assisted 
and  urged  on  by  both  the  whips  and  oaths  of  the  comites 
and  by  the  alteration  of  the  helm,  and  slowly — for  it  was 
a  long  business  to  turn  so  lengthy  a  fabric  as  L'Idole — 
the  galley  wore  round  to  meet  her  pursuer. 

She  would  not  have  done  so  could  she  have  escaped 


156  I2J  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

by  flight,  but  that  was  impossible.  Even  four  hundred 
and  twenty  galley  slaves,  Christian  and  Turk,  could  not 
propel  her  as  fast  as  the  lightest  breeze  could  move  the 
great  frigate.  Moreover,  they  were  caught  unawares 
since  they  happened  to  be  alone  instead  of,  as  was  al- 
most always  the  case,  in  company  with  half  a  dozen 
other  galleys.  Their  companions  had  that  morning, 
gone  in  chase  of  a  Dutch  merchantman  whose  main- 
mast had  broken,  so  that  she  could  only  proceed  slowly, 
and  L'Idole  was  being  sent  back  to  Dunkirk  when  ob- 
served and  chased  by  the  English  man-of-war.  She 
had,  therefore,  to  fight  and  beat  the  enemy  or  be  sunk 
and  every  man  on  board  of  her  be  slain — certainly  every 
man  not  a  slave.  For  the  British  sailor  of  those  days 
so  hated  the  French  galleys,  in  which  he  knew  well 
enough  men  of  his  own  faith  were  kept  and  tortured, 
that  he  spared  none  in  authority  in  those  vessels  when- 
ever the  chance  to  slay  them  arose.  Nor,  indeed,  did 
he  always  spare  the  Protestant  slaves  themselves  in  the 
heat  of  an  engagement.  They  were  fighting  against 
England,  and  that  was  enough  for  him. 

"  Saperlote  I  "  exclaimed  the  captain  of  the  galley  to 
the  maitre-canonnier,  by  whose  side  he  now  stood  in  the 
fore  part  of  the  galley, "  the  cochons  will  not  be  pierced  ! 
See  how  they  change  course  with  us !  Grand  Dieu ! 
they  have  our  beam.  To  your  guns,  at  once !  What 
will  they  do  now  ?  " 

What  they  would  do  in  the  frigate  was  obvious. 
Their  master  gunner  was  also  busy  at  his  work ;  they 
could  see  his  figure  with  the  linstock  in  his  hand,  or 
could  rather  catch  the  gleam  of  the  linstock  itself,  as 
he  moved  behind  his  gun  ports.  A  moment  later  what 
he  did  was  equally  obvious.  He  ran  along  his  tier,  firing 
his  cannon.  Then  there  was  a  crash,  followed  by  an- 


LA  GALERE  GRANDE  REALE.       157 

other,  and  another,  and  another,  as  cannon  after  cannon 
were  discharged  and  the  balls  smashed  into  the  galley. 
Some  swept  the  coursier,  cutting  down  the  captain,  two 
of  the  blaspheming  and  brutal  comites,  and  the  aumo- 
nier,  or  chaplain — who  was  encouraging  the  Protestant 
and  Turkish  slaves  by  reciting  the  Catholic  service  to 
them.  Half  a  dozen  more  balls  struck  the  benches  of 
the  galeriens,  wounding  and  killing  one  fifth  of  them, 
smashing  even  the  chains  by  which  some  were  bound 
to  their  seats,  even  smashing  the  benches  themselves, 
and  taking  off  legs  and  arms  and  heads.  Then  by  a 
quick  and  masterly  manoauvre  the  frigate  altered  course, 
came  round  on  the  other  side,  and  repeated  the  broad- 
side with  her  other  tier. 

As  that  was  delivered,  and  a  moment  afterward  her 
boats  were  lowered,  filled  with  sailors  to  board  L'Idole, 
the  galley  heeled  over  and  began  to  sink. 

And  No.  211  muttered,  as  with  a  jerk  from  the 
lurching  craft  he  was  thrown  into  the  sea,  "  Thank  God, 
the  end  has  come  !  "  * 


*  The  description  of  the  galley  is  taken  from  Memoirs  d'un 
Protestant  condamne  aux  Galeres  de  France,  and  written  by  one 
Jean  Marteidhe.  It  was  published  in  Rotterdam  in  1757,  and 
again  in  Paris,  by  the  Societe  des  Ecoles  du  Dimanche,  in  1865 
and  1881,  and  is  perhaps  the  best  account  in  existence  of  the  suf- 
ferings and  terrible  existence  of  French  galley  slaves.  It  is  also 
well  known  in  the  translations  by  Oliver  Goldsmith,  a  reprint  of 
which,  edited  by  W.  Austin  Dobson,  has  just  appeared. 


158  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

"A   NEW   LIFE." 

FROM  the  frigate  there  floated  at  the  maintop-gallant- 
masthead  the  flag  of  a  rear  admiral ;  on  the  poop  of  the 
frigate  herself  there  stood,  surrounded  by  his  officers, 
Admiral  Rooke,  the  brilliant  seaman,  soon  to  win  his 
knighthood  and  other  honours. 

The  galley  had  disappeared — was  gone  forever — and 
with  her  had  disappeared  most  of  the  sufferers  from  the 
cruelty  of  France,  and  also  all  those  who  had  inflicted 
that  suffering.  Of  her  survivors  there  were  but  a  dozen 
all  told,  who,  some  wounded  and  some  untouched,  were 
being  brought  on  board.  Among  the  latter  was  No. 
211,  who,  in  spite  of  the  thanks  he  had  given  to 
God  for  having  brought  the  end  of  all  his  miseries 
to  him,  now  stood  dripping  on  the  deck  of  the  Eng- 
lishman. 

"  Send  them  down  to  the  cockpit  to  be  attended 
to,"  the  admiral  said,  "  and  let  them  be  well  cared  for. 
Poor  wretches !  they  all  seem  to  be  galley  slaves ;  they 
have  suffered  enough,  God  knows,  if  all  accounts  be 
true ! "  Then  he  called  to  his  own  men  attending  to 
the  rescued,  and  asked  if  any  were  unhurt. 

"Only  two,  sir;  this  man  standing  here,"  and  he 
pointed  to  211,  "and  one  other.  He  has  just  fainted." 

"  Let  that  man  come  up  to  me ;  I  wish  to  know 
something  of  the — the  late  galley." 

To  his  surprise  the  man  himself  instantly  turned 
and  advanced  toward  the  poop  ladder,  and  slowly 
mounted  it.  Then,  as  he  reached  the  poop  itself  he 
saluted  Rooke,  raising  his  hand  to  his  dark,  matted  hair, 


"A  NEW  LIFE."  159 

and  stood  silent  and  dripping  before  him  and  the  offi- 
cers round. 

"  My  man,"  the  admiral  said,  while  his  eye  roved 
over  the  torn  and  lacerated  bare  back  and  shoulders, 
saw  the  old  and  new  cuts  and  bruises,  and  observed  the 
half-starve^  flanks  through  which  the  bones  were  plainly 
visible — "  my  man,  you  understand  English.  Are  you 
an  Englishman?" 

"My  mother  was  an  English  woman,"  No.  211  re- 
plied, in  a  deep,  hollow  voice. 

"  That  any  English  woman's  son  should  suffer  this  ! " 
exclaimed  the  other,  again  glancing  at  the  worn,  bruised 
body  with  warm  and  manly  indignation.  "  And  that ! " 
pointing  out  to  his  officers  the  fleur-de-lis  roughly 
branded  on  his  shoulder ;  sure  sign  of  theforcat.  Then, 
continuing,  he  asked,  "  What  was  your  fault?" 

"Nothing,"  211  answered,  as  he  had  answered  his 
brother  galerien  an  hour  before.  Only  now  he  lifted 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  admiral,  as  though  by  that 
straight  glance  he  would  force  him  to  believe.  "No 
crime,  no  fault.  I  was — oh  ! "  he  broke  off,  "  not  now ; 
not  now !  The  story  is  too  long  to  tell  now." 

His  tone  and  bearing — sad  and  miserable  as  both 
Were — told  all  who  stood  around  him  that  this  was  no 
common  man,  no  malefactor  flung  to  the  slave  ship  for 
an  ignoble  crime,  no  wretched  printer  sent  to  the  galleys 
for  producing  Protestant  pamphlets,  or  chapel  clerk  for 
assisting  in  a  Protestant  service. 

"  You  are  of  gentle  blood  ?  "  the  admiral  asked  kind- 
ly. "  Followed,  doubtless,  the  calling  of  a  gentleman  ? 
What  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  cavalry  officer  of  King  Louis.  But  broken 
and  ruined  for — for "  and  again  he  broke  off. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  name  ?  " 


160  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  Georges  St.  Georges." 

The  name  conveyed  nothing  to  any  on  board  the 
frigate;  the  rank  he  had  borne,  when  stated  by  him, 
stirred  them  all.  They  knew  one  thing,  however — 
namely,  that  the  cavalry  officers  of  France  were  all  gen- 
tlemen of  birth,  and  many  of  great  position.  Could 
this  be  true,  or  if  true  was  it  possible  that  the  man  be- 
fore them  had  not  perpetrated  some  hideous  crime  ? 
Louis  had  the  reputation  of  encouraging  and  treating 
good  officers  well ;  surely  no  man  of  that  position  could 
have  been  condemned  to  this  awful  existence  but  for 
some  great  sin.  Rooke,  however,  thought  he  knew  the 
clew,  and  continued : 

"You  are,  perhaps,  a  Protestant?  The  King  of 
France  still  wages  bitter  war  against  them.  Is  that 
your  crime?" 

"  I  am  a  Protestant ;  but  that  was  not  my  crime." 

He  shivered  as  he  spoke,  although  he  stood  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  July  sun,  the  burnt  face  whitened  be- 
neath its  bronze,  and  the  lips  became  livid  and  ghastly, 
then  he  reeled  and  staggered  against  the  gun  tackle  on 
the  poop. 

"Take  him  below,"  Rooke  said,  turning  to  one  of 
the  subaltern  officers  at  his  side ;  "  let  him  be  seen  too 
and  carefully  tended  and  those  sores  dressed.  Also  find 
some  proper  apparel  for  him.  And — treat  him  as  a 
gentleman.  It  is  more  like  that  he  has  been  sinned 
against  than  sinned  himself." 

So  the  fainting  man  was  carried  below  in  the  brawny 
arms  of  the  sailors,  a  spare  cabin  was  found  for  him — it 
had  but  a  few  weeks  before  been  occupied  by  a  lieuten- 
ant who  was  killed  in  the  disastrous  battle  off  Beachy 
Head — and  he  was  put  into  a  clean,  comfortable  bunk. 
The  release  which  he  had  prayed  for  from  the  galley's 


"A  NEW  LIFE." 

slavery  had  come,  though  not  in  the  only  way  he  had 
dared  to  hope  for. 

"  So ! "  exclaimed  Rooke  as  he  helped  himself  to  a 
glass  of  Calcavella  and  passed  the  bottle  to  the  man 
whose  life  had  been  saved — "  so  the  wanton  stabbed  you 
in  the  back  just  as  you  had  the  fellow  at  your  mercy. 
The  deuce  is  in  it  that  you  missed  his  heart  and  could 
only  pink  him  in  the  arm.  But  go  on — go  on.  Faith ! 
'tis  a  wondrous  story  of  wrong  and  cruelty." 

They  were  seated  in  the  admiral's  cabin  on  another 
such  hot  July  day  as  that  on  which  St.  Georges  had 
been  dragged  out  of  the  sea  with  still  a  portion  of  his 
chain  attached  to  the  ring  round  his  ankle,  and  which 
was  rapidly  sinking  him,  but  the  latter  was  looking  in 
very  different  case  now.  The  burnt  face  was  still  very 
black  and  hollow,  the  lines  of  suffering  still  plainly 
marked,  as  they  would  be  for  many  a  day,  but  otherwise 
all  was  changed.  He  was  dressed  as  a  gentleman  once 
more,  in  a  plain  but  neat  suit  of  blue  clothes,  guarded 
with  white  cotton  lace — it  had  been  the  unfortunate 
lieutenant's.  His  hair,  which  was  combed  and  brushed 
now,  was,  although  still  somewhat  short — it  being  the 
custom  in  the  galleys  to  crop  it  close  to  the  head  for 
those  days  once  a  month — no  longer  thick  and  matted. 

St.  Georges  went  on  as  the  admiral  bade  him ;  he 
was  telling  the  whole  story  of  his  life  to  his  host. 

"Yet,  sir,"  he  continued,  "she  was  no  common 
wanton  either,  as  I  heard  afterward,  but  a  lady  of 
Louis's  court  who  loved  De  Eoquemaure.  Doubtless 
her  hate  and  anger  were  roused  by  the  words  I  addressed 
to  her.  And  I  must  have  wronged  her  in  one  instance 
at  least ;  it  could  scarce  have  been  she  who  stole  my — 
my  poor  little'  babe."  And,  as  ever,  when  he  mentioned 


162  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

that  lost  one,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  was  gone 
from  him  now,  he  feared,  forever — he  had  been  in  that 
accursed  galley  for  two  years ! — how  could  he  hope  to 
see  her  again  on  this  earth  ?  No  wonder  that  the  tears 
sprang  to  his  eyes ! 

The  seaman  opposite  to  him  certainly  wondered  not 
at  their  doing  so ;  instead,  he  passed  his  own  hand  before 
his  eyes,  as  he  had  done  more  than  once  before  in  the 
course  of  the  narrative.  Countless  men  had  been  sent 
to  their  doom  by  that  hand  and  by  his  orders,  but  that 
was  in  battle ;  now,  as  he  thought  of  St.  Georges's  little 
lonely  child  and  wondered  if  it  still  lived,  his  memory 
wandered  back  to  Monk's  Horton,  a  pleasant  seat  in 
Kent,  where  his  own  children  were  doubtless  playing  at 
their  mother's  knee,  and  his  brave  heart  became  as 
tender  as  a  woman's. 

"  Poor  babe ! "  he  said,  "  poor  babe !  Pray  God  the 
other  woman,  the  one  who  did  steal  her  at  Troyes,  has 
some  bowels  of  compassion !  Surely  she  must  have, 
however  base  in  other  respects." 

"  I  pray  so  night  and  day,"  St.  Georges  said.  "  0 
God !  how  I  pray  so."  Then  again,  at  the  admiral's 
desire  that  he  should  not  fret  too  much,  but  hope  ever 
for  the  best,  he  went  on  with  the  account  of  all  that  had 
befallen  him. 

"  When  my  wound  was  nearly  healed,"  he  said, 
"  there  came  to  the  room  in  the  inn,  where  I  was  closely 
guarded,  a  small  body  of  exempts  who  carried  me  to 
Paris  to  the  prison  of  La  Tournelle,  a  place  from  which,  as 
I  shortly  afterward  learned,  a  chain  of  condemned  galley 
slaves  was  to  set  out,  all  winter  as  it  was,  for  Mar- 
seilles." 

" '  But,'  I  cried  to  the  man  who  fed  us  morning  and 
night  like  animals,  while  we  lay  each  with  an  iron  collar 


"A  NEW  LIFE."  163 

round  our  necks  by  which  we  were  chained  to  a  beam 
that  traversed  the  dungeon " 

"  In  a  Christian  country ! "  exclaimed  the  admiral — 
"  a  Christian  country  !  " 

"  Ay !  in  a  Christian  country !  Yet  I  cried,  I  say, 
to  the  man  who  guarded  us :  '  But  these  companions  of 
mine  are  condemned — I  am  not.  I  have  undergone  no 
trial ! ' 

" '  Bah  I '  he  replied, '  your  trial  is  made  and  done.  Bon 
Dieu  !  the  courts  cannot  wait  until  criminals  feel  them- 

• 

selves  in  sufficient  good  health  to  assist  at  the  seances. 
Your  trial  is  over,'  and  the  wretch  made  a  joke  therewith. 
'Your  trials  have  now  to  commence.  Keep  a  good 
heart ! '  '  Show  me  my  sentence,  then,'  I  exclaimed, 
'  produce  it.'  *  A  la  bonne  heureS  he  replied.  *  To- 
morrow I  will  obtain  it  from  the  governor.  You  shall 
see.'  And  the  next  day  he  showed  it  to  me.  It  was 
not  so  long  but  that  I  remember  every  word  of  it  now. 
It  ran :  *  To  Georges  St.  Georges.  For  that  you,  a 
cashiered  officer  of  his  Majesty's  forces,  have  drawn 
sword  upon  and  threatened  assassination  to  his  Majesty's 
chief  of  the  army,  Monsieur  de  Louvois,  in  his  Majesty's 
own  palace  of  the  Louvre ;  for  that,  also,  you  attempted 
the  assassination  of  his  Majesty's  subject,  le  Marquis  de 
Roquemaure,  appointed  captain  of  his  Majesty's  Regi- 
ment of  Picardy,  and  of  a  lady  of  his  Majesty's  court, 
you  are  condemned  to  the  galleys  in  perpetuity.  Signed, 
Le  Marquis  de  Vrilliere.'  " 

Again  the  admiral  exclaimed,  "  In  a  Christian  coun- 
try ! "  and  again  St.  Georges  continued  : 

"  A  week  afterward  we  were  on  the  road,  chained 
together  two  and  two  by  the  neck,  while  all  along  the 
line  through  our  chains  ran  another,  joining  the  first 
couple  to  the  last  The  snow  lay  on  the  ground  until 


IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

we  reached  Avignon,  six  weeks  later;  at  night  we  slept 
in  barns,  in  stables,  sometimes  in  the  open  air.  Some — •  ' 
the  old  and  sickly — fell  down  and  were  left  by  the  road- 
side for  the  communes  to  bury ;  more  than  fifty  were 
left  thus  ere  we  reached  Marseilles.  There  we  were 
distributed  to  the  galleys  that  were  short  of  their  com- 
plement, though  not  before  the  bishop  of  the  province 
gave  us  the  Roman  blessing,  saying  that  thereby  the 
heretic  spirit  of  the  devil  could  alone  be  driven  out  of 
those  who  were  Protestants.  From  then  till  now  my 
life  has  been  what  my  appearance,  as  you  saw  me  naked, 
testifies." 

"  What,"  asked  the  admiral  very  gently,  "  can  you 
do  now  ?  To  live  is  easy  enough.  You  have  been  both 
soldier  and  sailor" — though  he  uttered  the  last  word 
with  an  expression  of  disgust  as  he  thought  of  what 
manner  of  sailor  this  unhappy  man  had  been — "  your 
existence  is  therefore  easy.  You  can  serve  the  king," 
and  he  touched  his  hat  with  his  finger  as  he  spoke. 
"  Many  Huguenots  are  doing  so  now,  and  some  other  old 
ones  who  followed  Charles  back  to  England.  But " — and 
he  leaned  forward  across  the  table  as  he  spoke  earnestly 
— "  that  will  bring  you  no  nearer  to  regaining  your  poor 
little  babe ;  will  scarce  enable  you  to  thrust  your  sword 
at  last  through  the  villain  De  Roquemaure's  breast ;  to 
obtain  the  dukedom  you  believe  to  be  yours." 

"  Obtain  the  dukedom,  sir ! "  St.  Georges  replied, 
looking  at  him.  "  Nay,  indeed,  that  is  gone  forever. 
You  know  what  befalls  the  man  in  France  who  has  been 
condemned  to  the  galleys  for  life?  " 

"What?" 

"  He  is  as  dead  forever  in  the  law's  eyes  as  though 
he  were  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  He  can  never 
inherit,  can  never  dispose  of  aught  that  is  his ;  if  he  is 


"A  NEW  LIFE."  165 

married,  his  wife  is  not  considered  as  a  married  woman, 
but  a  mistress — every  right  has  gone  from  him  for- 
ever ! " 

"  Is  there  no  pardon  ?  " 

"  Never.  Unless  he  can  by  some  wild  chance  prove 
a  wrongful  condemnation.  And  for  me,  how  that? 
Louvois,  the  all-powerful  minister,  is  my  judge  and 
executioner  ;  and,  further,  when  once  I  set  foot  on  Eng- 
lish ground  I  shall  become  an  English  soldier  or  sailor." 

"  But  the  child  !  At  least " — and  the  sailor  spoke 
more  softly  even  than  before — "you  must  know  her 
fate.  And — De  Roquemaure's  punishment !  How  ob- 
tain these  ?  " 

"  Heaven  alone  knows !  May  it,  in  its  supreme 
mercy,  direct  me !  Yet  this  is  what  I  have  thought, 
planned  to  do  since  you,  sir,  have  taken  pity  on  me. 
England  and  France  are  now  most  happily,  as  I  think 
it,  plunged  in  war  once  more.  There  is  much  to  do " 

"Ay,"  interposed  the  admiral,  while  his  handsome 
face  flushed  and  his  eyes  glistened,  for  he  was  smarting 
over  his  and  Torrington's  recent  defeat.  "  There  is. 
There  is  Beachy  Head  to  be  wiped  out — oh,  for  our 
next  encounter  with  them  ! " 

"  Thereby,"  continued  St.  Georges,  "  my  chance  may 
come.  For  I  may  meet  De  Roquemaure.  The  sen- 
tence on  me  said  he  was  appointed  captain  in  one  of  the 
northern  regiments;  there  have  been  stranger  things 
than  foes  to  the  death  meeting  on  the  field,  on  opposite 
sides.  Then  for  the  child ! " 

"  Ay,  the  child." 

"  For  that  I  must  go  back  to  France,  disguised  it 
may  be ;  nay,  must  be !  That  will  be  easy.  The  lan- 
guage is  mine — though  because  of  my  mother's  memory 
I  have  perfected  myself  in  yours — in  hers — there  is 


166  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

nothing  to  reveal  who  or  what  I  am  but  one  thing  " — 
and  he  made  a  gesture  toward  his  shoulder  where  the 
hateful  fleur-de-lis  was  branded  in  forever — "  and  that 
thing  you  may  be  sure  none  shall  ever  see  again  until 
my  body  is  prepared  for  the  grave.  But — which  to  do 
first?  To  become  a  soldier  or  a  sailor  fighting  for  Eng- 
and,  or  travel  disguised  to  Troyes  and  find  out  if — if — 
my  child  still  lives.  That  would  be  my  desire — only — 
only " 

"  Only  ?  "  repeated  the  admiral,  looking  at  him. 

"  Only,"  the  other  said — then  broke  off. 

And  Rooke  knew  as  well  as  though  St.  Georges  had 
uttered  the  words  what  he  would  have  said.  He  knew 
that  the  man  before  him  was  beggared,  that  he  had  not 
a  crown  in  the  world  to  help  him  perform  such  a 
journey. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  HURRY,  HURRY,  HURRY  !  " 

ST.  GEORGES  was  lodged  in  an  old  inn  on  Tower 
Hill  now,  in  a  large  room  that  ran  from  the  front  to  the 
back  of  the  house  and  with,  on  the  latter  side,  a  look- 
out upon  an  old  churchyard,  which  in  the  swift-coming 
spring  of  1692 — for  it  was  now  April  of  that  year — was 
green  and  bright  with  the  new  shooting  buds.  Here  he 
worked  hard  to  earn  a  living,  spending  part  of  his  day 
in  translating  a  book  or  so  from  French  into  English — 
at  beggar's  wages! — another  part  in  giving  lessons  in 
fencing  and  swordsmanship — he  knowing  every  trick 
and  passade  of  the  French  school — and  a  third  in  giv- 
ing lessons  in  his  old  language.  And  between  them  he 


"HURRY,   HURRY,   HURRY!"  1C7 

managed  to  earn  enough  to  support  existence  while 
waiting  for  that  which  through  the  interest  of  Admiral 
Eooke  had  been  promised  him — namely,  permission  to 
volunteer  into  the  first  vessel  taking  detachments  of  re- 
cruits to  sea  with  it. 

Meanwhile,  there  were  many  about  the  court  who 
had  heard  his  story  and  who  knew  he  was  a  man  who 
had  once  worn  the  red  dress  of  the  chiourme — when  his 
back  was  not  bared  to  the  lashings  of  the  comites  ! — 
that  he  had  slaved  at  the  galley  oar  in  summer  and 
been  put  to  road-mending  and  road-sweeping  in  the 
winter,  and  that  he  nourished  against  France  a  deep 
revenge.  And  among  them  was  the  king  himself. 

Rooke  had  told  William  his  history,  over  long  clay 
pipes  and  tankards  at  Hampton  Court,  and  the  astute 
Dutchman  had  not  hesitated  a  moment  in  promising 
him  employment — would,  indeed,  have  taken  a  hundred 
such  into  that  employ  if  he  could  have  found  them. 
He  had  learned  how  the  exile  hated  France — as  he  did 
himself,  his  hatred  being  the  mainspring  of  his  life ; 
moreover,  that  exile  knew  more  about  Louis's  regiments 
and  whole  military  system  than  almost  any  one  else 
whom  the  English  king  could  discover.  That  was  suffi- 
cient for  him. 

So  St.  Georges  went  on  his  way,  waiting — waiting 
ever  for  one  of  two  things  to  occur :  either  that  the  ma- 
rine regiment  should  call  for  volunteers  and  be  sent  out 
again  to  France,  or  that  he  should  be  able  to  return  dis- 
guised to  that  country  and  recommence  his  search  for 
Dorine. 

During  the  period  that  had  elapsed,  however,  since 
he  was  rescued  by  Rooke,  one  thing  had  happened  that 
had  brought  great  happiness  to  his  heart :  he  had  heard 
more  than  once  from  Boussac,  now  a  lieutenant  of  the 


168  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Mousquetaires  Noirs,  and  in  so  hearing  had  gained 
news  of  his  child,  who  was  still  alive,  and,  as  Boussac  be- 
lieved, well  treated. 

"Mon  pauvre  ami"  that  gallant  officer  had  written, 
in  reply  to  a  letter  forwarded  him  by  St.  Georges  and 
addressed  to  Paris,  where  he  imagined  the  Mousquetaires 
might  be,  "  how  shall  I  answer  yours,  since,  when  I  re- 
ceived it,  I  had  long  deemed  you  dead  ?  Ah !  monsieur, 
I  was  desolated  when  we  came  into  Paris  at  the  tidings 
I  gleaned.  I  sought  for  you  at  once,  inquired  at  the 
Bureau  Militaire,  and  learned — what?  That  you  had 
threatened  to  murder  the  minister — had,  indeed,  almost 
murdered  the  Marquis  de  Roquemaure;  and  that  for 
this  you  were  condemned  to  the  galley  L'Idole,  en  per - 
petuite.  Figure  to  yourself  my  dismay — nay,  more,  my 
most  touching  grief — for,  my  friend,  I  had  news  for  you 
of  the  best,  the  most  important.  And  I  could  not  deliver 
it,  should  never  now  deliver  it  to  you  in  this  world. 
Monsieur,  I  had  the  news  to  give  you  that  I  had  seen 
your  child — had  seen  it  well,  and,  as  I  think,  not  un- 
happy." 

It  was  St.  Georges's  habit  to  sit  sometimes  in  the 
little,  old  city  churchyard  beneath  his  window,  and  there 
to  muse  on  his  past  and  meditate  upon  the  future.  It 
had  an  attraction  for  him,  this  old  place,  more,  perhaps, 
for  the  reason  that  scarce  any  one  ever  came  into  it  on 
week  days,  except  himself  and  a  decrepit  gravedigger  to 
occasionally  open  old  graves  or  prepare  new  ones,  than 
for  any  other;  but  also  because  there  was  one  tombstone 
that  interested  him  sadly.  It  bore  upon  it  a  child's 
name,  "  Dorothy,"  and  told  how  she  had  died,  "  ageed 
three,"  in  January,  "  in  the  yeare  of  Oure  Lorde " 
1688.  And  below  the  scroll  of  flowers,  with  an  angel's 
head  in  their  midst,  was  the  quotation  from  Kings: 


"HURRY,   HURRY,   HURRY!"  169 

"Is  it  well  with  the  child?  And  she  answered,  It 
is  well." 

To  his  seared  and  bruised  heart  some  sad  yet  tender 
comfort  seemed  to  be  afforded  by  this  stone,  which 
marked  and  recorded  the  death  of  one  whose  very  name 
partly  resembled  the  name  of  her  he  had  lost — whose 
little  life  had  been  taken  from  her  almost  at  the  very 
time  Dorine  was  snatched  away  from  him.  And  the 
question  of  the  prophet  was  the  question  that  he  so 
often  asked  in  his  prayers.  The  answer  was  that 
which  so  often  he  beseeched  his  Maker  to  vouchsafe 
to  him. 

He  was  seated  opposite  to  this  stone  on  the  day  he 
first  received  Boussac's  letter,  having  brought  it  out 
with  him  to  peruse  in  quiet.  He  was  seated  on  it  now, 
many  months  later,  as  he  reread  the  mousquetaire's 
words  which  told  him  that  Dorine  was  well,  and,  he 
thought,  not  unhappy.  And  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
words  of  the  Shunamite  woman  and  murmured,  "  It  is 
well  with  the  child,"  and  whispered,  "  God,  I  thank 
thee  !  "  as  he  had  done  on  the  day  when  first  the  letter 
came  to  him.  Then  he  continued  : 

"  We  passed  through  Troyes,  monsieur,  three  months 
after  you,  and  I  saw  her.  She  was  a  little  outside  the 
town,  with  an  elderly  bonne,  hand  in  hand.  I  obtained 
permission  to  quit  the  ranks  for  a  moment — I  was  not 
then  promoted,  you  will  understand — and,  dismounting 
and  leading  my  horse  toward  them — you  remember  the 
good  horse,  monsieur  ? — I  said  to  the  woman,  *  Whose 
child  is  that,  madame?'  She  drew  away  from  me,  gath- 
ered the  petite  to  her,  and  answered, '  Mine, '  whereon 
I  smiled ;  for  I  could  not  be  harsh  with  her — the  little 
creature  looked  so  well  cared  for " 

Again  St.  Georges  lifted  up  his  eyes,  again  he  mur- 
12 


170  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

mured,  "  I  thank  Thee ! "  and  again  went  on  with  the 
letter : 

" '  And  the  father,'  I  demanded, '  where  may  he  be  ? ' 
'Dead,'  she  answered.  'You  know  that?'  I  asked 
hurriedly,  and  she  replied, '  Ay,.  I  know  it,  monsieur.' 
But,"  Boussac  continued, "  I  could  see  that  she  repeated 
a  story  she  had  been  taught,  that  she  was  a  paid  gouver- 
nante.  Yet,  what  to  do?  Already  the  troop  was  out 
of  sight ;  I  might  not  linger.  Had  I  been  alone,  it  may 
be  I  would  have  snatched  the  child  from  her,  jumped 
on  my  horse,  and  carried  it  away  as  once  you  carried  it, 
guarded  it  as  you — as  we,  monsieur — guarded  it.  Helas  ! 
that  could  not  be.  Therefore,  on  your  behalf,  I  kissed 
the  little  thing,  and  I  emptied  my  poor  purse  into  the 
woman's  hand.  '  Keep  it  well,'  I  said,  '  keep  it  well, 
and  thereby  you  shall  reap  a  reward  greater  by  far  than 
any  you  now  receive.  I  know — I  know  more  than  you 
think.'  Then  the  bonne  replied  to  me :  '  So  long  as  I  am 
able  it  will  be  guarded  well.  No  danger  threatens  the 
child  at  present ' — she  said  '  at  present ' — I  am  unhappy 
that  I  have  to  mention  those  words.  But  she  spoke 
them.  I  knew  not  what  had  happened  then ;  I  know 
now  from  your  letter.  But,  monsieur,  what  does  it 
mean  ?  De  Eoquemaure  tried  to  slay  the  child  when 
you  had  her  in  your  keeping.  Now  that  he  has  her  in 
his  own — for  who  can  doubt  it? — he  treats  her  well. 
Monsieur,  again  I  say,  what  does  it  mean?  And  the 
'  at  present ' — what,  too,  does  that  mean  ?  " 

St.  Georges  was  no  more  able  to  answer  that  silent 
question  than  the  far-distant  writer  of  it.  Instead,  lie 
repeated  to  himself  again  and  again,  as  he  had  often 
done,  the  same  words,  "  What  did  it  mean  ?  "  And  as  a 
man  stumbling  in  the  dark,  he  could  find  no  way  that 
led  him  to  the  light. 


"HURRY,   HURRY,   HURRY!" 

"  How  can  I  answer  him  ?  "  he  mused.  "  What 
answer  find  ?  The  villain  tried  to  slay  her,  as  Boussac 
says,  when  we  were  there  to  guard  her ;  now  that  he  has 
her  in  his  charge,  now  that  his  hate  is  doubled,  must  be 
doubled  and  intensified  by  my  determination  to  slay  him, 
as  I  almost  succeeded  in  doing,  he  stays  his  hand.  What 
does  the  mystery  mean  ?  "  And  one  answer  alone  pre- 
sented itself  to  him.  De  Eoquemaure  might  have  dis- 
covered that  that  which  he  once  suspected  to  be  the  case 
was  in  reality  not  so.  He  might  have  found  that,  in 
truth,  he,  St.  Georges,  was  not  the  Due  de  Vannes. 

"  Thus,"  he  reflected,  "  he  would  hesitate  to  murder 
the  harmless  child.  His  vengeance  on  me  is  glutted ; 
he  must  have  known,  even  so  early  as  Boussac's  passage 
through  Troves,  that  I  was  as  good  as  dead  in  that  vile 
galley ;  if  he  knew,  too,  that  I  am  not  really  De  Vannes's 
heir,  the  child  no  longer  stands  in  his  light.  And  devil 
though  he  is,  even  his  tigerish  nature  may  have  halted 
at  the  murder  of  so  helpless  a  thing." 

Also  he  knew,  by  now,  that  both  De  Roquemaure 
and  Louvois  must  be  perfectly  confident  that  not  only 
was  he  practically  dead  but  actually  so<  The  galley  was 
gone — sunk ;  and  of  the  few  saved  none  had  gone  back 
to  France.  And  the  other  galleys — those  which  had 
chased  the  Dutch  merchantman — would  take  the  news 
back ;  none  would  suppose  that  he  and  a  few  more  were 
still  alive. 

As  he  reflected  on  this  month  by  month — while  often 
his  eyes  would  rest  now  on  the  words  before  him,  "  It  is 
well  with  the  child  " — another  light  came  at  last  to  his 
mind  :  he  saw  that,  almost  without  any  danger,  he  might 
return  to  Troves.  He  was  a  dead  man ;  none  would  be 
on  the  watch  for  him. 

"  Return  to  Troyes  ! "  he  repeated.     "  Return  to 


172  IN'  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Troyes ! "  And  starting  from  his  seat  he  walked  hur- 
riedly away  after  one  more  glance  at  the  consoling 
words.  He  would  go  at  once,  find  the  child,  and  then 
return  to  England  forever.  Yes,  he  thought,  he  would 
do  that.  He  had  money  enough  now  to  reach  that  city. 

Excited  by  this  determination,  he  Strode  toward  his 
lodging,  determined  to  set  out  directly.  Months  had 
passed,  no  fresh  volunteers  had  been  called  for,  and 
although  he  knew  that  Louis  was  massing  together  a 
large  number  of  troops  in  the  north  of  France — with 
the  intention  of  once  more  attempting  to  put  James  II 
on  the  throne  he  had  fled  from — nothing  had  yet  been 
done.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  would  be  done  beyond 
endeavouring  to  guard  the  shores  of  England  from  a 
French  invasion  and  securing  suspected  persons  and 
sending  forces  to  the  seacoast.  But  for  himself  he 
heard  nothing  from  any  source.  Perhaps,  he  mused,  he 
was  forgotten. 

Yet  as  he  entered  his  room  he  learned  that  the  time 
had  not  yet  come  for  him  to  take  that  solitary  and  dan- 
gerous journey  to  France.  There  was  something  else  to 
be  done  first. 

Lying  on  his  table  were  two  letters :  one,  with  a  great 
seal  upon  it,  from  Admiral  Rooke ;  the  other,  addressed 
to  a  firm  of  merchants  in  the  city,  but  with — since  its 
arrival  in  London — St.  Georges's  name  written  over 
theirs,  from  Boussac.  He  read  the  latter  first;  before 
all  else  it  was  the  child  he  thought  of — then  threw  it 
down  almost  with  impatience.  He  looked  eagerly  for 
these  letters ;  they  were  indeed  the  anxiety  of  his  life, 
and  now  that  this  had  come  it  told  him  nothing  that  he 
cared  to  hear. 

Yet  there  was  one  piece  of  intelligence  in  the  letter 
that  once  would  have  interested  him.  The  mousque- 


"HURRY,  HURRY,  HURRY!"  173 

taire  had  seen  Aurelie  de  Koquemaure,  had  spoken  with 
her. 

"  I  met  her,  mon  ami"  he  wrote,  " entering  the  gal- 
lery of  audience  at  Versailles  where  I  was  in  attendance, 
and  she  looked,  although  pale,  for  she  wears  no  paint 
like  the  other  grandes  dames — I  know  not  why,  since 
his  Christian  Majesty  expects  it " 

"  She  wore  enough  when  I  saw  her  last ! "  St.  Georges 
muttered. 

"  — most  beautiful.  Mon  Dieu  !  what  eyes,  what  a 
figure !  I  knew  her  only  from  seeing  her  pass  in  to 
audience  before,  while  as  for  me  she  had  never  deigned 
so  much  as  a  glance.  Yet  now^Jigurez  vous,  mon  ami, 
she  spoke  to  me  while  waiting  for  the  others  to  pass  be- 
fore her.  '  I  have  heard,'  she  said,  speaking  very  low, 
'  that  you  are  Monsieur  Boussac.'  I  answered  that  that 
was  my  name.  Then,  after  a  glance  around  to  see  that 
no  eyes  were  upon  us,  she  went  on  :  '  You  did  a  service 
once  to  an  unhappy  gentleman — a  cJievau-Uger — now 
dead  ? '  What  she  was  going  to  say  further  I  know  not, 
since  I  interrupted  her  so  by  the  slight  start  I  gave  that 
she  paused  in  her  intention,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
raised  her  eyes  to  mine  and  regarded  me  fixedly.  Then 
she  approached  her  face  nearer  to  mine  and  whispered : 
'Why  do  you  start?  He  is  dead — is  he  not?'  Mon 
ami,  what  could  I  reply?  She  is  the  sister,  by  mar- 
riage, of  your  foe ;  if  I  told  her  you  lived,  who  knows 
what  evil  I  might  work?  Therefore,  I  answered  briefly, 
'  Madame,  the  gaUre  L'Idole  was  sunk,  and  he  was  in  it.' 
Still  she  regarded  me,  however — mon  Dieu !  it  seemed 
as  though  her  eyes  would  tear  the  secret  from  out  of  my 
brains.  Then — for  now  the  throng  was  moving  on  and 
she  had  to  go  with  it — she  whispered  again :  '  If — if  by 
any  hazard — he  was  not  sunk  with  the  galley — if  he 


174  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

still  lives,  there  is  news  for  him  that  would  make  him 
happy.'  Then  she  passed  on  with  the  others,  and 
so  out  by  the  main  gallery,  and  I  have  not  seen  her 
since." 

There  was  more  in  the  letter,  but  at  that  time  St. 
Georges  read  no  further.  Once  this  news  would  have 
stirred  every  fibre  in  him,  for  once  he  had  believed  that 
Aurelie  do  Roquemaure  was  his  friend — was  on  his 
side !  He  had  long  ceased,  however,  to  do  so ;  had,  in- 
stead, come  to  believe  that  she  and  her  mother  were  as 
inimical  to  him  as  their  cowardly  brother.  And  long 
months  of  meditation  had  brought  him  to  the  belief 
also  that  the  marquise's  scorn  against  the  man  who  had 
attacked  him  and  Boussac,  and  endeavoured  to  slay  the 
child,  was  simulated ;  that  they  regarded  his  and 
Dorine's  existence  with  as  much  hatred  as  did  De 
Roquemaure  himself.  And  now,  now  he  felt  sure  that 
she  knew  he  was  alive  and  was  only  eager  to  discover  if 
he  was  anywhere  near  them — near  enough  to  work 
vengeance  on  them.  As  for  the  news  which  would 
"make  him  happy!" — well,  any  scheming  intriguer 
might  endeavour  to  hoodwink  so  simple  a  soldier  as 
Boussac  with  such  a  tale  as  that !  He  was  only  too 
thankful  Boussac  had  had  sufficient  discretion  not  to 
betray  his  existence  to  her.  To  have  done  that  would 
be  to  have  put  her  and  De  Roquemaure  on  their 
guard  against  that  return  to  France  which  should  yet 
be  made,  against  that  revenge  which  should  yet  be 
taken. 

He  opened  Sir  George's  letter  now,  quietly  and  with- 
out excitement,  for  he  had  grown  used  to  occasional 
communications  at  long  intervals  from  that  gallant 
sailor,  telling  him  that  at  present  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  be  of  service  to  him  ;  but  as  he  hastily  ran  his 


MAY,  1692.  175 

eye  over  the  lines  lie  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight. 
They  ran : 

"  Namesake,  if  you  are  still  of  the  mind  you  were, 
the  time  has  come.  There  is  a  big  muster  at  St.  Helens, 
for  Tourville  puts  to  sea  to  invade  us.  A  place  shall  be 
found  for  you,  though  maybe  not  in  my  ship.  Hurry, 
hurry,  hurry  ! " 


CHAPTER   XXI. 
MAY,  1692. 

riding  along  the  Portsmouth  road  that  warm 
April  night  could  doubt  that  a  great  crisis  was  at  hand. 
Certainly  St.  Georges  did  not  do  so  as  couriers  and  mes- 
sengers galloped  past  him  toward  London  calling  out 
the  news  to  all  who  cared  to  hear  it.  As  he  mounted 
Kingston  Vale  two  men,  hastily  jumping  on  their  steeds 
outside  "  The  Baldfaced  Stag,"  cried  that  they  must 
rouse  the  queen  even,  though  she  be  a-bed,*  for  the 
Frenchman  was  at  sea  with  an  enormous  fleet  and  had 
been  seen  in  the  morning  from  the  coast  of  Dorset ;  and 
all  along  the  route  it  was  the  same.  Wherever  he 
changed  his  horse  he  found  couriers  setting  out  for 
London ;  whomsoever  he  passed  on  the  road  gave  him 
the  same  news.  At  Eipley  they  told  him  the  French 
had  landed  under  the  command  of  Bellefonds  and  King 
James — but  these  were  rustics  drinking  in  a  taproom 
— at  Guildford  the  news  was  contradicted,  but  the  cer- 


*  William  was  fighting  on  the  Continent,  and,  as  usual,  being 
defeated. 


17G  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

tainty  of  the  landing  taking  place  shortly  was  much 
believed  in.  Then,  at  Godalming,  where  by  now  the 
day  had  come,  he  passed  a  regiment  marching  as  fast  as 
might  be  toward  the  coast,  and  the  officer  in  command 
told  him  that  no  landing  had  yet  been  effected;  at 
Petersfield  he  heard  the  same ;  at  Portsmouth  laughter 
and  derision,  scorn  and  contempt  were  hurled  at  all 
who  dared  even  to  suppose  that  a  French  fleet  would 
put  a  French  army  ashore.  For  here,  in  every  inn  and 
tavern,  were  men  who  had  fought  in  a  score  of  naval 
engagements,  and  who  were  going  out  now  to  fight 
again.  And,  as  he  stood  upon  the  Hard,  waiting  for  a 
boat  to  take  him  off,  he  observed  the  vast  fleet  of  sixty- 
three  ships  under  Russell's  command  lying  at  anchor 
off  the  island,  and  saw  from  the  maintop-gallant-mast 
head  of  the  Britannia  (flagship)  the  admiral's  flag  flying. 
Also  on  the  main  shrouds  he  saw  another  flag,  showing 
that  a  council  of  war  was  already  being  held.  There, 
too,  were  visible  the  ensigns  of  Rooke,  Sir  Cloudesley 
Shovell,  Sir  John  Ashley,  Sir  Ralph  Delaval,  and  Rear 
Admiral  Carter,  and  as  the  noble  spectacle  met  his  view 
his  heart  beat  fast  within  him.  The  country  that  had 
adopted  him  was  about  to  help  him  revenge  his  wrongs 
on  the  country  that  had  sent  him  forth  to  stripes  and 
beatings  and  ignominy. 

The  shore  boat  made  its  way  through  countless 
others — some  filled  with  officers  and  their  baggage  going 
off  to  the  ships,  some  with  sailors  half  drunk,  who 
would,  nevertheless,  fight  to  the  death  when  once  they 
boarded  the  Frenchmen ;  some  with  provisions  for  the 
fleet ;  and  some  with  other  volunteers  like  himself,  and 
with,  in  several  cases,  girls  going  off  to  say  farewell  to 
their  sweethearts,  or  with  mothers  and  wives.  From 
most  of  these  boats  there  rose  the  babel  of  scores  of 


MAY,   1692.  177 

different  songs  and  ballads,  all  telling  how  when  French 
sailors  met  English  their  doom  was  sealed.  Yet  at  this 
time,  and  for  about  another  month,  the  French  held  the 
supremacy  of  the  sea.  After  that  month  was  over  the 
supremacy  was  gone  forever ! 

From  the  Britannia  there  came  away,  as  St.  Georges's 
boat  approached  the  lines,  several  barges  bearing  the 
admirals  and  captains  who  had  attended  the  council  of 
war,  and  among  them  St.  Georges  saw  that  of  Admiral 
Eooke,  who,  as  he  saluted  him,  made  signs  for  the  other 
boat  to  follow  to  his  ship. 

"  Now,"  said  Rooke,  after  he  had  greeted  St.  Georges 
and  complimented  him  upon  his  promptitude  in  hasten- 
ing down  to  the  fleet,  and  also  on  his  improved  appear- 
ance— for  the  two  years  he  had  passed  in  London  had 
done  much  to  restore  his  original  good  looks,  and,  with 
the  exception  that  there  rested  always  upon  his  face  a 
melancholy  expression,  none  would  have  guessed  the 
sufferings  he  had  once  endured — "  now  let  me  under- 
stand. Therefore,  speak  definitely  and  frankly.  You 
have  thrown  in  your  lot  forever  with  England." 

"  Forever,"  St.  Georges  replied. 

"Without  fear  of  change,  eh?"  the  admiral  said. 
"  Remember— recall  before  we  sail  to-night — all  you  are 
doing.  If  you  fight  on  our  side  now,  there  will  be — 
henceforth — no  tie  between  you  and  France.  That 
dukedom  of  which  you  told  me  once  is  gone  forever,  no 
matter  how  clearly  you  may  find  your  title  to  it.  Louis 
will  never  forgive  the  work  we  mean  to  do.  If  you  are 
English  to-day — for  the  next  week,  the  next  month — 
you  are  English  for  always." 

"  I  have  come  down  here,"  St.  Georges  replied,  his 
voice  firm,  his  words  spoken  slowly,  so  that  Rooke  knew 
that  henceforth  his  resolution  would  never  be  shaken, 


178  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  to  fight  on  England's  side  against  France.  There  will 
be  no  wavering !  If  I  fall,  I  fall  an  Englishman  ;  if  I 
survive,  I  am  an  Englishman  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I 
renounce  my  father's  people,  whomsoever  that  father 
may  have  been,  provided  he  was  a  Frenchman :  I  ac- 
knowledge only  my  mother's.  Short  of  one  thing — my 
endeavour  to  regain  my  child." 

"  How  is  that  to  be  accomplished  ?  If  you  survive 
this  which  we  are  about  to  undertake,  your  life  will  be 
forfeited  in  France." 

"  It  is  forfeited  already.  Remember,  sir,  I  am  still, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law  of  France,  a  galley  slave.  That 
alone  is  death,  or  worse  than  death.  In  the  future  when 
I  go,  as  I  intend  to  go  if  I  live,  upon  another  quest  for 
her  I  have  lost,  I  shall  be  in  no  worse  case.  Only,  then, 
it  will  be  the  halter  and  not  the  galleys.  So  best ! " 

"  Be  it  so,"  the  admiral  replied.  "  Henceforth  you 
belong  to  us.  Now,  this  is  what  I  can  do  for  you. 
Listen.  I  find  there  is  a  place  for  you  here  on  this  very 
ship.  You  know  something  of  seamanship  from  your 
bitter  experiences;  as  a  soldier,  also,  you  understand 
discipline.  The  master's  mate  of  this  ship  was  drowned 
a  week  ago ;  you  can  try  the  post  if  you  please.  And 
when  the  campaign  is  over,  it  may  be  that  I  can  find 
you  a  better  one." 

"  I  accept,  with  thanks,"  St.  Georges  said.  "  I  adopt 
from  to-day  your  calling.  Henceforth  I  am  an  English 
sailor." 

"  Come,  then,  and  see  your  captain,"  Rooke  replied  ; 
"  you  will  find  him  a  good  one,  and  hating  France  as 
much  as  you  can  desire." 

He  followed  the  admiral  to  another  cabin,  where  they 
found  the  captain,  who  was  Lord  Danby — Rooke's  flag- 
ship being  now  the  Windsor  Castle — and  here  they 


MAY,   1692.  179 

were  made  acquainted  with  each  other,  though  Danby 
had  already  heard  the  history  of  the  man  who  was 
coming  into  his  ship. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I 
know  your  story — at  least  so  far  as  it  concerns  me.  I 
only  trust  you  will  encounter  some  of  your  late  friends' 
galleys  and  be  able  to  repay  them  for  some  of  the  kind- 
nesses they  once  testified  toward  you." 

So  St.  Georges  became  a  sailor  once  more — though 
in  a  very  different  manner  from  what  he  had  last  been 
— and  as  master's  mate  sailed  in  the  Blue  Squadron  of 
KusselPs  fleet  against  the  French  fleet  under  Tourville. 

The  Dutch  allies  were  coming  in  rapidly  ere  they 
left  St.  Helen's  and  Spithead  on  the  26th  of  April,  and 
already  of  the  fleet  of  thirty-six  ships  under  Van  Al- 
monde  many  had  joined.  Their  first  cruise  was,  how- 
ever of  no  result;  they  simply  picked  up  their  pilots 
from  the  Sally  Rose,  these  men  having  been  got  from 
Jersey,  and  observed  that  all  along  the  peninsula  of 
Cotentin — where  James  and  Marshal  Bellefonds  were 
encamped — great  beacons  were  burning  by  night.  They 
knew,  therefore,  that  France  expected  the  English  fleet. 
A  little  later,  while  once  more  they  lay  off  Spithead  and 
St.  Helen's,  they  knew  that  Tourville  had  put  to  sea  to 
meet  them.  Fishermen  corning  into  harbour,  spies  sent 
out  in  various  directions,  the  Sally  Rose  herself — all 
brought  the  news  that  the  French  admiral  was  on  the 
sea — his  squadron  headed  by  his  own  flagship,  Le  Soleil 
Royal,  and  by  Le  Triumphant  and  L'Ambitieux,  had 
been  seen  from  Portland  cliffs. 

The  time  had  come. 

On  May  18th  that  great  English  fleet,  formed  into 
two  squadrons — the  Red  commanded  by  Russell,  Delaval, 
and  Cloudesley  Shovell,  and  the  Blue  by  Sir  John  Ashby, 


180  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

Rooke,  and  Carter — and  followed  by  the  Dutch,  stood 
away  from  the  English  coast,  their  course  south  and  south 
by  west.  Swiftly,  too,  when  clear  of  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
the  line  of  battle  was  formed,  the  Tyger  leading  the 
starboard  and  the  Centurion  the  larboard  tacks.  And 
so  they  sailed  to  meet  the  enemy,  and  to  frustrate  the 
last  attack  of  any  importance  ever  made  by  the  French 
to  invade  England. 

It  was  not  long  ere  that  frustration  commenced. 

Scouts  coming  back  swiftly  on  the  morning  of  the 
19th  reported  the  enemy  in  full  force  near  them,  and 
from  the  Britannia  ran  out  the  signal — received  with 
cheers  from  thousands  of  throats — to  "  clear  the  ships 
for  action  ! "  And  St.  Georges,  busy  with  his  own  work, 
knew  that  the  time  was  at  hand  for  which  he  longed. 

To  the  west  there  loomed  up  swiftly  the  topmasts  of 
the  French  flagships ;  soon  the  figurehead  of  Le  Soleil 
Royal  was  visible — a  figurehead  representing  Louis 
standing  upon  his  favourite  emblem,  a  great  sun,  and 
with  the  inhabitants  of  other  nations  lying  prostrate  at 
his  feet  and  bound  in  chains. 

"  Behold,"  said  Rooke,  as  St.  Georges  passed  close  to 
him,  "  your  late  king !  Ah,  well !  that  sun  shall  set  ere 
long,  or " 

His  words  were  drowned  in  more  cheers.  From  all 
those  English  seamen  on  board  the  various  ships — nearly 
thirty  thousand  men  exclusive  of  the  Dutch  allies — there 
rose  hurrah  after  hurrah,  as  swiftly  the  opposing  forces 
advanced  to  meet  one  another.  Then  the  Britannia 
saluted  the  Soleil  Royal — a  sinister  politeness — and  from 
the  French  flagships  there  came  an  answer  in  the  shape 
of  a  discharge  of  small  shot.  The  battle  had  begun. 

From  the  English  vessels  that  discharge  was  an- 
swered by  broadsides  from  their  great  guns :  from  the 


MAY,   1692.  181 

Britannia,  the  Royal  Sovereign — Delaval's  flagship — 
those  broadsides  were  poured  in  with  merciless  pre- 
cision. Moreover,  the  wind  favoured  the  English  foe 
more  than  it  did  the  French  ;  their  great  ships  being 
enabled  to  form  a  circle  round  their  foes  and  to  pour  in 
their  fire  on  either  side  of  them.  Already  one  French- 
man had  blown  up,  hurling  her  contents  into  the  air ; 
already,  too,  the  Soleil  Royal  had  had  her  maintopsail 
shot  away  by  the  Britannia;  in  another  moment  she 
had  let  down  her  mainsail  and  was  tacking  away  from 
her  untiring  foe.  And  following  her  went  L'Admirable 
and  Le  Triumphant. 

"  Heavens ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  as,  black  and 
grimed  with  powder,  he  worked  with  the  men  under  his 
direction  at  the  lower-deck  tier  of  guns  in  the  Windsor 
Castle,  "  they  run  already !  Is  that  the  king  the  world 
has  feared  so  long — the  king  I  served  ?  " 

The  French  flagship  was  not  beaten  yet,  however — 
it  was  too  soon ;  and  though  she  could  not  force  her 
way  through  those  enemies  which  surrounded  her,  she 
could  still  keep  them  off,  prevent  them  from  boarding 
her.  Twice  the  Britannia  and  another  had  endeavoured 
to  lay  themselves  alongside  her  for  that  purpose,  but  the 
fire  she  vomited  from  her  gunports  was  too  hot ;  like  a 
gaunt  dying  lioness  she  made  it  death  to  come  too  near. 
Yet  her  struggles  were  the  struggles  of  despair ;  already 
twenty  of  her  squadron  had  deserted  her  and,  pursued 
by  English  vessels,  were  tearing  through  the  Race  of 
Alderney  as  fast  as  their  shot  sails  would  take  them,  in 
the  hopes  of  reaching  the  lee  of  Cotentin.  Two  alone 
remained  with  her — remained  to  share  her  fate — the 
Admirable  and  Triumphant. 

That  fate  was  not  yet,  however ;  those  three  ships 
had  yet  a  few  hours  of  existence  left  to  them.  Fighting 


182  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

still,  still  belching  forth  flames  and  destruction,  they 
closed  together,  and  so  withstood  the  merciless  broad- 
sides of  the  Britannia  and  Koyal  Sovereign ;  then,  at 
last  wounded  and  shattered — the  figure  of  Louis,  his 
emblem  the  sun,  and  the  downtrodden  representatives 
of  other  nations  were  long  since  shot  away  and  floating, 
or  sunk,  in  the  sea — a  favourable  wind  sprang  up  and 
beneath  it  they  ran,  Tourville  having  already  transferred 
his  flag  to  L'Ambitieux.  Yet,  fly  as  they  might,  behind 
them  came  their  pursuers  as  fast  as  they.  Delaval  in 
the  Royal  Sovereign  with  a  small  squadron  never  halted 
in  the  chase.  Still  pouring  volley  upon  volley  from  his 
bow  fire  into  their  sterns,  he  hung  upon  them,  and,  when 
they  found  they  could  not  enter  St.  Malo,  followed  them 
to  Cherbourg. 

And  here  their  end  came.  They  had  struggled  into 
shoal  water,  forcing  themselves  aground  in  the  hope  the 
English  men-of-war  could  not  follow  them,  and  rapidly, 
in  a  frenzy  of  fear,  the  men  were  casting  themselves 
over  the  sides  and  gaining  the  land.  The  ships  were 
doomed  they  knew,  their  own  lives  might  still  be  saved. 
They  were  none  too  soon  even  for  that.  The  fireships 
and  attenders  were  soon  among  those  three.  Le  Soleil 
Royal  was  ablaze  first,  Le  Triumphant  next,  and  then 
L'Admirable.  As  the  night  came  on  they  lit  up  the 
coast  for  miles  around ;  as  morning  dawned  they  were 
burnt  to  the  water's  edge.  Their  own  magazines  as 
they  took  fire  assisted  in  their  destruction  and  helped 
by  their  explosions  to  finish  them. 

Meanwhile  the  remainder  of  the  great  French  fleet 
had  run  for  the  bay  of  La  Hogue,  and  behind  them, 
like  sleuthhounds,  went  Russell,  Shovell,  and  Rooke 
with  their  squadrons. 


LA  HOGUE.  183 

CHAPTER   XXII. 

LA   HOGUE. 

THE  sun  was  setting  brilliantly  behind  the  peninsula 
that  juts  out  into  the  English  Channel  and  forms  the 
department  of  La  Manche ;  its  last  rays  as  it  fell  away 
behind  Cherbourg  lit  up  a  strange  scene.  On  land, 
looking  east,  were  thirty  thousand  so-called  French 
troops  ;  they  were,  indeed,  mostly  Irish  rapparees  whom 
Louis  had  thought  suitable  for  an  invasion  of  England 
under  James  and  his  own  marshal,  Bellefonds ;  among 
them  and  in  command  were  Bellefonds,  Melfort,  and 
James  himself — now  a  heartbroken  man.  Also  there 
stood  by  his  side  one  who  knew  that  not  only  his  heart 
but  his  life  was  broken  too — Tourville,  who  had  now 
come  ashore. 

What  they  gazed  on  in  the  bay  was  enough  to  break 
the  hearts  of  any. 

There,  gathered  together,  the  flames  leaping  from 
the  decks  to  enfold  and  set  on  fire  the  furled  sails,  the 
magazines  exploding,  the  great  guns  turned  toward  the 
land  that  owned  them  and  their  projectiles  mowing 
down  all  on  that  land,  were  the  best  ships  of  that 
French  fleet  which  had  put  out  to  sea  to  crush  the 
English.  Among  them  were  Le  Merveilleux,  L'Ambi- 
tieux,  Le  Foudriant,  Le  Magnifique,  Le  St.  Philip, 
L'Etonnant,  Le  Terrible,  Le  Fier,  Le  Gaillard,  Le  Bour- 
bon, Le  Glorieux,  Le  Fort,  and  Louis.  And  all  were 
doomed  to  destruction,  for  the  English  fleet  had  block- 
aded them  into  the  shallow  water  of  La  Hogue ;  there 
was  no  escape  possible. 


184:  IN   THE   DAY  OP   ADVERSITY. 

Three  hours  ere  that  sun  set,  Kooke  had  sent  for  St. 
Georges  and  bade  the  latter  follow  him. 

"  I  transfer  my  flag  at  once,"  he  said, "  to  the  Eagle, 
so  as  better  to  direct  a  flotilla  of  fireships  and  boats. 
Come  with  me,"  and  stepping  into  his  barge  he  was 
quickly  rowed  to  that  vessel  with  St.  Georges  alongside 
him  in  .the  stern  sheets. 

Reaching  the  Eagle,  Rooke,  who  had  now  the  com- 
mand of  the  attacking  party,  rapidly  made  his  disposi- 
tions for  despatching  the  flotilla — the  officering  of  the 
various  fireships  being  at  his  disposition. 

"  My  Lord  Danby,"  he  said  to  that  gallant  captain, 
who  had  refused  to  remain  doing  nothing  in  his  own 
ship,  "  you  will  attack  with  the  Half  Moon  and  thirty 
boats ;  you,  Lieutenant  Paul,  with  the  Lightning  and 
thirty  more.  Mr.  St.  Georges,  who  has  done  well  for  us 
to-day,  and  has  a  trifling  grudge  against  our  friends, 
will  take  the  Owner's  Love." 

And  so  he  apportioned  out  the  various  commands, 
until,  in  all,  two  hundred  fireships  and  attenders  were 
ready  to  go  into  the  doomed  fleet. 

At  first  things  were  not  favourable.  The  Half 
Moon  ran  ashore,  blown  thereto  by  the  breeze  from 
off  the  sea,  but  in  an  instant  Lord  Danby's  plans  were 
formed.  He  and  his  crew  destroyed  her,  so  that  she 
could  not  be  used  against  their  own  fleet,  then  swiftly 
put  off  in  their  boats  and  rejoined  the  others.  Mean- 
while those  others  were  rapidly  creeping  in  toward  the 
French. 

Already  two  fireships  had  set  Le  Foudriant  and 
L'Etonnant  on  fire,  the  boats  were  getting  under  the 
bows  of  all  the  others,  the  boarders  were  swarming  up 
the  sides,  cutlasses  in  hand  and  mouths,  and  hurling 
grenades  on  to  the  French  decks. 


LA   HOGUE.  185 

"  Follow ! "  called  St.  Georges,  as,  his .  foot  upon  a 
quarter-gallery  breast  rail,  his  hand  grasping  the  chain, 
he  leaped  into  the  huge  square  port  of  Le  Terrible. 
"Follow,  follow!"  and  as  he  cried  out,  the  sailors 
jumped  in  behind  him. 

Yet,  when  they  had  entered  the  great  French  ship, 
there  was  no  resistance  offered.  She  was  deserted  !  As 
they  had  come  up  the  starboard  side,  her  crew,  officers 
and  men,  had  fled  over  the  larboard — as  hard  as  they 
could  swim  or  wade  they  were  making  for  the  shore. 
Yet  her  guns  on  the  lower  tier  forward  were  firing 
slowly,  one  by  one  as  the  boats  reached  them.  A 
grenade  had  been  hurled  in  as  St.  Georges's  party  passed 
under  her  bows  and  had  set  the  ship  alight  forward,  and 
the  flames  were  spreading  rapidly. 

"  Quick ! "  St.  Georges  exclaimed,  "  ignite  her  more 
in  the  waist  and  here  in  the  stern.  Cut  up  some  chips, 
set  this  after  cabin  on  fire.  As  it  burns,  the  flames  will 
fall  and  explode  the  magazine.  Some  men  also  to  the 
guns,  draw  the  charges  of  those  giving  on  us;  leave 
charged  those  pointing  toward  the  shore." 

All  worked  with  a  will — if  they  could  not  get  at  the 
Frenchmen  themselves,  they  had,  at  least,  the  ships  to 
vent  their  passions  upon — some  tore  up  fittings,  some 
chopped  wood,  some  ignited  tow  and  oakum ;  soon  the 
stern  of  the  Terrible  was  in  flames.  Meanwhile,  from 
Le  Fier  hard  by — so  near,  indeed,  that  her  bows  almost 
touched  the  rudder  of  the  ship  they  were  in — there 
came  an  awful  explosion.  Her  magazine  was  gone,  and 
as  it  blew  up  it  hurled  half  the  vessel  into  the  air,  while 
great  burning  beams  fell  on  to  the  deck  of  the  Terrible 
and  helped  to  set  her  more  alight. 

"  To  the  boats ! "  ordered  St.  Georges,  "  to  the  boats ! 
There  is  more  work  yet,  more  to  be  destroyed."  And 
13 


186  IN*  THE  DAY  OP  ^ADVERSITY. 

again,  followed  by  his  men,  they  descended  to  their  at- 
tenders  and  barges. 

But  now  the  tide  was  retreating,  they  could  do  no 
more  that  night.  They  must  wait  until  the  morrow 
when  the  tide  would  come  back.  Then  there  would  be, 
indeed,  more  work  to  do.  There  were  still  some  trans- 
ports unharmed;  they,  too,  must  be  annihilated  ! 

They  called  the  roll  that  night  in  the  British  fleet. 
There  were  many  men  wounded,  but  not  one  killed.  So, 
amid  the  noise  of  powder  rooms  and  magazines  ex- 
ploding, and  under  a  glare  from  the  burning  French 
ships  which  made  the  night  as  clear  as  day  they  lay 
down  and  rested.  And  in  the  morning  they  began 
again. 

"  The  work,"  the  admiral  said,  "  is  not  done  yet.  It 
is  now  to  be  completed." 

Back  went,  therefore,  the  fireships  and  attenders — 
this  time  it  was  the  turn  of  the  transports. 

"  Hotter  this  than  yesterday,"  called  out  Lord  Danby 
to  St.  Georges  from  one  boat  to  the  other,  as,  propelled 
by  hundreds  of  oars,  all  swept  in  toward  the  transports. 
His  lordship's  face  was  raw  and  bleeding  now,  for  on 
the  previous  day  he  had  burned  and  nearly  blinded  him- 
self by  blowing  up  tow  and  oakum  to  set  on  fire  a  vessel 
which  he  and  his  men  were  engaged  in  destroying. 
"  Hotter  now.  See,  there  are  some  soldiers  in  the 
transport,  and  the  forts  on  shore  are  firing  on  us.  On, 
on,  my  men ! "  and  he  directed  those  under  his  charge 
to  one  transport,  while  St.  Georges  did  the  same  as  he 
selected  another. 

There  were  more  than  a  dozen  of  those  transports, 
and  against  them  went  the  two  hundred  boats,  Eooke 
in  chief  command.  As  they  neared  the  great  vessels, 


LA  HOGUE.  187 

however,  on  that  bright  May  morning,  they  found  that 
the  work  of  last  night  had  only  to  be  repeated.  They 
poured  into  the  ships  from  the  starboard  side,  the 
French  poured  out  on  the  larboard ;  those  who  could 
not  escape  were  slaughtered  where  they  stood.  And  if 
to  St.  Georges  any  further  impetus  was  needed — though 
none  was,  for  his  blood  was  up  now  to  boiling  heat  and 
France  was  the  most  hated  word  he  knew — it  was  given 
him  as  he  approached  the  vessel  he  meant  to  board ; 
for,  from  it,  out  of  a  stern  port,  there  glared  a  pair  of 
eyes  in  a  ghastly  face — a  face  that  looked  as  though 
transfixed  with  horror  ! — the  eyes  and  face  of  De  Eoque- 
maure !  With  a  cry  that  made  the  rowers  before  him 
think  he  had  been  struck  by  a  bullet,  so  harsh  and  bitter 
it  was,  he  steered  the  barge  alongside  the  vessel ;  in  a 
moment  he  had  clambered  on  the  deck,  followed  by  man 
after  man ;  had  cut  down  a  French  soldier  who  opposed 
him,  and  was  seeking  his  way  toward  the  cabin  where 
the  other  was. 

"  There  is  an  officer  below,"  he  muttered  hoarsely  to 
those  who  followed  him.  "He  is  mine — remember, 
mine — none  others.  My  hand  alone  must  have  his  life, 
my  sword  alone  take  it.  Eemember  !  " 

As  his  followers  scattered — some  to  slay  the  few  re- 
maining on  board  who  had  not  escaped,  some  to  rush 
forward  and  ignite  the  fore  part  of  the  transport,  others 
to  fire  the  great  guns  laid  toward  the  shore,  and  still 
others  to  find  and  burst  open  the  powder  room — he 
rushed  down  to  where  that  cabin  was,  his  sword  in  hand, 
his  brain  on  fire  at  the  revenge  before  him. 

"  Now  !  now !  now  !"  he  murmured.     "  At  last !  " 

Under  the  poop  he  went,  down  the  aftermost  com- 
panion ladder,  through  a  large  cabin — the  officers'  liv- 
ing room — and  then  to  a  smaller  one  beyond,  opening 


188  IN   THE  DAY  OF  ADVERS1TV. 

out  of  the  other  on  the  starboard  side — the  cabin  from 
which  he  had  seen  the  livid,  horror-stricken  face  of  his 
enemy.  But  it  was  closed  tight  and  would  not  give  to 
his  hand. 

"  Open,"  he  called ;  "  open,  yon  hound,  open !  You 
cannot  escape  me  now.  Open,  I  say  ! " 

There  came  no  word  in  answer.  All  was  silent 
within,  though,  above,  the  roars  and  callings  of  the 
sailors  made  a  terrible  din. 

"You  hear?"  again  cried  St.  Georges,  "you  hear 
those  men  ?  Open,  I  say,  and  meet  your  death  like  a 
man !  Otherwise  you  die  like  a  dog !  One  way  you 
must  die.  They  are  setting  fire  to  the  magazine.  Cur, 
open ! " 

The  bolt  grated  from  within  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
door  was  thrown  aside.  De  Roquemaure  stood  before 
him. 

Yet  his  appearance  caused  St.  Georges  to  almost  stag- 
ger back,  alarmed.  Was  this  the  man  he  had  dreamed 
so  long  of  meeting  once  again,  this  creature  before 
him  !  De  Roquemaure  was  without  coat,  vest,  or  shirt ; 
his  body  was  bare ;  through  his  right  shoulder  a  terrible 
wound,  around  which  the  blood  was  caked  and  nearly 
dry.  His  face,  too,  was  as  white  as  when  he  had  first 
seen  it  from  the  boat,  his  eyes  as  staring. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  it  is  you,  alive  !  Well,  you  have 
come  too  late.  I  have  got  my  death.  What  think  you 
I  care  for  the  sailors  or  the  powder  room  ?  I  was  struck 
yesterday  by  some  of  the  Englishmen  who  passed  here 
as  the  tide  turned,  who  fired  into  this  ship  ere  the  tide — 
the  tide— the " 

"  Yet  will  I  make  that  death  sure ! "  St.  Georges 
cried,  springing  at  him.  "  Wounds  do  not  always  kill. 
You  may  recover  this — from  my  thrust  you  shall  never 


LA  HOGUE.  189 

recover ! " — and  he  shortened  his  sword  to  thrust  it 
through  his  bare  body. 

"I  am  unarmed,"  the  other  wailed.  "Mercy!  I 
cannot  live ! " 

"Ay,  the  mercy  you  showed  me!  The  attempted 
murder  of  my  child — the  theft  of  her,  the  murder 
perhaps  done  by  now — the  galleys !  Quick,  your  last 
prayer !" 

Yet  even  as  he  spoke  he  knew  that  he  was  thwarted 
again.  He  could  not  strike,  not  slay,  the  thing  before 
him.  The  villain  was  so  weakened  by  his  wound  that 
he  could  scarce  stand,  even  though  grasping  a  bulkhead 
with  his  two  hands ;  was — must  be — dying.  Why  take 
his  death,  therefore,  upon  his  soul  when  Fate  itself  was 
claiming  him  ?  It  would  be  murder  now,  not  righteous 
execution ! 

Moreover,  he  had  another  task  to  execute  ere  it  was 
too  late. 

"  Wretch,"  he  exclaimed,  "  die  as  you  are — find  hell 
at  last  without  my  intervention !  Yet,  if  you  value  a 
few  more  minutes  of  existence,  gain  them  thus.  Tell 
me,  ere  you  go,  where  you  have  hidden  my  child — what 
done  with " 

Before  he  could  finish  there  came  another  roar  from 
an  exploding  transport,  the  sound  of  beams  and  spars 
falling  in  the  water  round ;  a  darkness  over  the  cabin 
produced  by  the  volumes  of  smoke ;  the  screams  of 
wounded  and  burnt  Frenchmen  hurled  into  the  sea ; 
the  loud  huzzas  and  yells  of  the  British  sailors.  Then, 
as  that  roar  and  shock  died  away,  there  rose  in  the  air 
another  sound — a  paean  of  triumph  that  must  have 
reached  the  ears  of  those  on  shore  as  it  also  reached  the 
ears  of  those  two  men  face  to  face  in  that  cabin.  From 
hundreds  of  throats  it  pealed  forth,  rising  over  all  else — 


190  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

crackling  wood,  guns  firing,  the  swish  of  oars,  orders 
bawled,  and  shrieks  of  dead  and  dying. 

It  was  the  English  sailors  singing  Henry  Carey's 
song,  almost  new  then,  now  known  over  all  the  world  : 

"  God  save  our  gracious  king  ! 

Long  live  our  noble  king  ! 

God  save  the  king ! " 

"  Answer,"  St.  Georges  cried,  "  ere  your  master,  the 
devil,  gets  you !  ere  I  send  you  to  him  before  even  he 
requires  you ! " 

The  man  had  sunk  down  upon  a  locker  outside  the 
bunk,  his  two  hands  flattened  out  upon  the  lid,  his  face 
turned  up  in  agony.  From  either  side  of  his  mouth 
there  trickled  down  a  small  streak  of  blood  looking  like 
the  horns  of  the  new  moon ;  the  lips  were  drawn  back 
from  the  teeth,  as  though  in  agony  unspeakable.  And 
did  he  grin  mockingly  in  this  his  hour — or  was  it  the 
pangs  of  approaching  death  that  caused  the  grin  ? 

Then  he  gasped  forth  : 

"  You  are  deceived.  The  woman  who  stole — your 
child — was  Aurelie " 

"  What ! "  from  St.  Georges. 

"Aided  by — servant — Gaston.  Her — servant — not 
mine " 

"  My  God  !  "  In  that  moment  there  came  back  to 
him  a  memory.  The  lad,  Gaston,  had  his  arm  in  a 
sling  the  morning  he  learned  the  child  was  missing; 
the  woman,  who  lived  in  the  hut  and  saw  the  child 
taken  from  Pierre,  had  said,  "  His  arm  hung  straight  by 
his  side,  as  though  stiff  with  pain." 

Had  he  found  the  truth  at  last? 

"  Go  en,"  he  said. 

"  The  bishop's  man — had — got  it  safe.     Aurelie  and 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH.  191 

Gaston — caught — slew  him — took  the  child.  She — 
knew — your  birth — and — hated  you — and  would  gain — 
as  much  as — as  I.  Seek  her — if  you — would — 
know " 

He  fell  prone  on  the  lid  and  spoke  no  more. 

And  St.  Georges,  reeling  back  against  the  opposite 
bulkhead,  stared  down  at  him,  forgetting  all  that  was 
taking  place  around  the  burning  transport  in  his  misery 
at  that  revelation. 

"  Aurelie,"  he  whispered,  "  Aurelie !  Hated  me,  too, 
and  hated  her.  0  God,  pity  me ! " 

And  again  above  all  else  there  rose  the  triumphant 

shout : 

"  Send  him  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious, 
God  save  the  king ! " 

NOTE. — The  description  of  the  battle  of  La  Hogue  is  taken 
from  many  sources,  but  principally  from  the  narrative  of  the 
chaplain  on  board  the  Centurion.  It  is  the  most  full  and  com- 
plete, especially  as  regards  the  ships  engaged,  which  I  know  of. 
The  worthy  divine  was  a  Fellow  of  Corpus  Christi  College,  Ox- 
ford, and  this  seems  to  have  been  his  first  cruise.  He  returned 
"  home  "  afterward,  viz.,  to  Oxford,  and  has  left  very  fervent 
expressions  of  gratitude  at  having  been  able  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE   BITTERNESS   OF   DEATH. 

As  he  staggered  back  after  that  revelation,  St. 
Georges  noticed  that  the  great  chant  sounded  less 
strongly  and  more  distantly  in  his  ears,  and,  seized  with 
a  sudden  apprehension,  he  rushed  to  the  cabin  port-hole. 


192  IX  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Then  he  knew  that  what  he  had  dreaded,  that  the  idea 
which  had  sprung  into  his  mind  a  second  before,  as  the 
sturdy  English  voices  became  more  hushed  and  subdued, 
was  indeed  an  absolute  fact — the  flotilla  was  retiring. 
It  had  finished  its  work  of  destruction — it  was  return- 
ing to  the  man-of-war. 

And  he  was  left  behind  ! 

Behind !  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  French,  who, 
he  knew  very  well,  would  come  forth  from  the  fort  and 
batteries  directly  the  conquerors  had  withdrawn.  He 
was  in  a  trap  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  He 
would  be  found  there,  and  his  doom  be  swift. 

Yet,  in  a  moment,  even  as  he  glanced  down  at  his 
enemy  at  his  feet  and  noted  the  set  features — handsome 
as  in  life — the  white  face,  the  blood  at  either  side  of  the 
mouth,  looking  as  before  like  two  small  down-turned 
horns,  he  asked  himself  if  he  was  indeed  doomed  ?  Also, 
why  stay  there  to  be  taken  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  ?  The 
sea  was  beneath  him ;  a  mile  off  was  the  English  fleet. 
If  he  could  swim  to  that,  even  halfway  to  it,  he  could- 
make  signs  and,  perhaps,  be  seen  and  rescued ;  at  the 
worst  it  would  but  be  death.  And  a  more  fearful  death 
than  any  the  sea  could  bring  awaited  him  if  he  re- 
mained here. 

He  cast  one  more  look  at  De  Eoquemaure  lying  with 
his  head  upon  the  locker.  At  last  he  was  done  for !  He 
would  never  cross  his  path  again.  If  he  himself  could 
live,  if  he  could  escape  out  of  this  burning  pandemo- 
nium, could  again  stand  a  free  man  on  an  English  deck, 
he  would  have  to  contend  with  him  no  more.  There 
would  be  but  one  thing  further  to  do  then — to  stand 
face  to  face  with  Aurelie  de  Roquemaure,  to  ask  her  if 
this  charge  against  her  was  true — as  St.  Georges  never 
doubted ! — to  demand  his  child,  and,  if  she  would  not 


THE   BITTERNESS  OF   DEATH.  193 

restore  it  to  him,  to — to — what?  His  mind  was  full  of 
deeds  of  savagery  now ;  the  last  few  days,  filled  with 
slaughter  and  spent  amid  the  arousal  of  men's  fiercest 
passions,  had  made  him  fierce  too.  At  this  moment  if 
Aurelie  could  appear  before  him  he  knew  that  he  should 
slay  her — send  her  to  join  her  brother  and  all  the  other 
victims  of  his  own  aroused  passions.  It  would  be  dan- 
gerous for  her  if  she  were  face  to  face  with  him  at  this 
moment  and  refused  to  acknowledge  where  she  had 
hidden  Dorine. 

She  was  not  there,  however ;  at  the  present  moment 
he  had  to  take  steps  to  free  himself,  to  escape  from  the 
burning  transport.  "  '  Twill  be  time  enough,"  he  mut- 
tered, "to  tax  her  with  her  perfidy  when  I  stand  once 
more  before  her  to  punish  her  for  it.  And  my  own  hour 
is  too  near,  may  be  too  close  at  hand,  for  me  to  think 
of  that.  But  when  it  comes,  then " 

He  heard  an  explosion  in  another  part  of  the  vessel 
— he  knew  another  tier  of  guns  had  been  reached  by  the 
flames ;  he  was  tarrying  too  long.  The  magazine  must 
be  close  to  the  cabin  in  which  he  was,  might  be,  indeed, 
beneath  the  cabin  floor — at  any  moment  he  risked  being 
blown  to  atoms.  He  must  lose  no  time.  To  be  caught 
there  was  death,  instant  and  certain  ! 

Lying  at  the  door  of  the  main  cabin  where  he  had 
been  slain  was  one  of  the  officers  of  the  transport ;  near 
him  another  man  of  lower  rank,  the  one  shot  through 
the  back  the  other  cut  down  by  Eooke's  sailors  as  he 
fled  into  the  cabin ;  and  as  his  eye  rested  on  them  a 
thought  struck  him.  None  of  Bellefonds  and  James's 
forces  on  land  could  say  who  were  or  were  not  officers 
of  the  transports — what  was  there  to  prevent  him  from 
being  one  for  the  time  being  ?  All  was  fair  in  war ! — 
and  he  was  as  much  French  as  any  who  might  come  out 


194:  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

from  the  forts  or  batteries  to  the  sinking  and  exploding 
ships — if  any  dared  to  come  at  all.  Once  in  the  garb 
of  either  of  these  lying  here,  officer  or  petty  officer, 
and  he  would  be  able  to  get  safely  ashore,  and  could 
avoid  question  by  disappearing  a  moment  afterward, 
or  as  soon  as  might  be. 

And  he  would  be  in  France — would  be  so  much 
nearer  to  the  reckoning  with  Aurelie  de  Eoquemaure ! 

He  drew  on  the  jacket  of  the  officer  as  the  thoughts 
of  all  this  chased  one  another  through  his  mind,  threw 
his  own  sword  down  and  took  up  that  of  the  dead  man, 
placed  on  his  head  the  hat  he  had  worn — bearing  in  it  a 
gold  cockade  on  which  a  glittering  sun  was  stamped — 
and  then,  glancing  through  the  square  porthole  that 
gave  on  the  shore,  he  looked  to  see  if,  yet,  any  of  the 
French  were  coming  out  to  save  some  of  their  vessels 
from  the  conflagration.  But  the  wind  was  blowing  off 
the  sea  to  the  land  and  carrying  with  it  the  smoke  from 
the  burning  ships ;  between  those  ships  and  the  shore 
all  was  obscured.  And  still,  as  he  looked,  the  explo- 
sions— though  fainter  now — took  place  at  every  mo- 
ment ;  he  could  hear  the  crackling  of  the  flames  in  the 
vessel  in  which  he  was. 

He  knew  that  he  must  go — must  not  tarry  another 
instant.  Those  flames  were  gaining  round  him;  they 
would  reach  the  magazine  before  long — and — then !  He 
must  go  at  once. 

He  cast  one  more  hurried  glance  at  De  Roquemaure, 
who  seemed  quite  dead  now.  But,  dead  or  alive,  what 
mattered  it  ?  If  dead,  so  much  the  better ;  if  alive,  he 
would  be  blown  to  atoms  in  a  few  .more  moments — as 
he  would  himself  if  he  tarried  longer.  He  must  go  at 
once. 

"  Farewell,  dog ! "  he  muttered,  with  one  look  down- 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH.  195 

ward  at  his  enemy.  "  Farewell.  Your  account  is 
made  ! "  And  without  wasting  another  moment — for 
his  fear  of  being  hurled  into  eternity  himself  the  next 
moment  had  gained  terrible  hold  on  him — he  rushed  to 
the  main  cabin  door  and  seized  the  handle. 

An  awful  sweat  of  fear — a  cold,  clammy  sweat — 
broke  out  all  over  him  as  he  did  so ;  he  knew  now  how 
dear  life  was  to  him — dearer  than  he  had  ever  dreamed 
before  that  it  would  be ;  or  was  it  rather  the  fear  of  an 
awful  death  than  death  itself?  Was  it  that  which 
caused  him  to  almost  faint  with  horror  as  he  recognised 
that  the  door  was  either  locked  or  jammed,  so  that  it 
would  not  open  ? 

He  was  doomed — the  fire  was  spreading — he  heard 
one  great  gun  explode  by  itself — a  gun  on  the  lower 
deck  near  where  the  powder  room  must  be — beneath 
him — he  was  doomed !  In  another  few  moments — per- 
haps not  more  than  four  or  five  at  most — the  bulkheads 
would  fly  asunder,  the  deck  split  like  matchwood,  he 
and  the  dead  bodies  of  De  Koquemaure  and  the  others 
be  flung  to  the  elements,  be  blown  into  portions  of  the 
elements  themselves. 

Drenched  with  sweat,  paralyzed  with  terror — it  was 
the  terror  of  an  awful  death  and  not  of  death  itself; 
livid  with  horror — though  he  was  not  aware  such  was 
the  case ;  his  lips  parched  and  glued  together ;  not 
knowing  whether  his  limbs  were  shaking  beneath  him 
or  the  deck  of  the  cabin  quivering  before  its  impending 
upheaval,  his  starting  eyes  glared  round  the  prison  he 
was  in.  And  as  he  so  glared  he  saw — if  God  gave  him 
a  moment  more — his  opportunity.  The  great  square 
ports — an  invention  of  but  the  last  few  years  and  super- 
seding the  old  small  round  ones — furnished  that  oppor- 
tunity. 


196  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

With  a  gasp — nay,  almost  a  cry — he  clambered  on  the 
locker  beneath  the  nearest  one — again  it  seemed  as  though 
the  ship  was  quivering  with  the  impending  explosion ! 
— thrust  his  head  and  shoulders  through,  dragged  the 
sword  by  his  side  carefully  after  him,  seized  a  top  chain 
hanging  down  into  the  water,  and  was  himself  in  the 
water  a  moment  later.  Then  a  nervous,  hurried  thrust 
of  one  foot  against  the  hull,  with  an  impetus  obtained 
thereby  which  propelled  him  a  dozen  feet  from  the  ves- 
sel, a  few  masterful  strokes  made  boldly,  all  trembling 
with  fear  and  horror  as  he  was,  and  he  plunged  into  a 
puff  of  black  smoke,  the  cinders  among  which  hissed 
on  his  face  as  he  struck  it,  and  he  was  saved — saved 
from  that  most  awful  death,  even  though  countless 
other  deaths  surrounded  and  loomed  up  before  him; 
saved,  at  least,  from  being  dismembered  and  flung 
piecemeal  in  a  million  atoms  on  the  bosom  of  the 
ocean. 

The  smoke  drifting  in  his  face  recalled  to  him  that 
he  was  swimming  toward  the  English  fleet;  the  current 
still  making  toward  the  shore  told  him  that  he  could 
never  reach  that  fleet.  Even  as  he  swam  away  from  the 
doomed  transport  he  knew  that  the  powerful  tide  be- 
neath was  carrying  him  back ;  he  must  change  his 
course,  or  another  moment  would  carry  his  body  against 
the  after  part  of  the  ship  he  had  but  now  escaped  from, 
the  ship  which  must  now  ere  long  be  hurled  out  of  the 
sea!  It  was  easy  to  do  so,  however;  to  turn  himself 
away  from  her  so  that,  even  though  borne  back  to  the 
coast  of  Cotentin,  he  would  pass  far  astern  of  her. 
He  had  enough  strength  for  that,  enough  left  to  haul 
himself  far  out  from  where  she  lay — but  not  much 
more.  He  was  sore  spent  now  with  all  he  had  gone 
through,  and  was  borne  down  also  with  the  double 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF   DEATH.  197 

weight  of  clothes  upon  him ;  as  he  glided  by,  or  was 
carried  back — though  some  forty  yards  adrift  of  the 
transport — he  could  do  nothing  more  than  tread  water 
and  so  manage  to  keep  himself  afloat. 

Borne  through  the  murky  grime,  along  that  water 
there  came  now  the  swish  of  oars  and  the  voices  of  men 
speaking  in  French — French  strongly  accentuated  and 
in  the  Manche  patois.  What  were  they  doing,  he  won- 
dered. Had  they  come  out  to  save  some  of  the  burning 
transports  and  boats,  to  endeavour  to  stop  the  flames 
and  also  the  firing  of  the  guns  by  the  heat — their  own 
guns  that,  as  they  fired,  hurled  their  charges  on  their 
own  shore  ?  Were  they  going  to  meet  their  dooms  un- 
knowingly by  venturing  on  that  very  place  of  death 
which  he  had  just  escaped  from? 

It  might  be — might  well  be  so ;  and  though  he  had 
fought  against  them — though  they  were  Frenchmen 
and  his  enemies,  too,  he  must  warn  them,  save  them, 
if  he  could :  they  were  men,  human  beings ;  he  could 
not  let  them  go  unwittingly  to  such  an  awful  end  as 
this,  could  not  let  them  board  that  ship  and  meet  the 
fate  he  had  avoided.  Therefore  he  hailed  them  as 
loudly  as  he  was  able,  screamed  to  them,  besought  them 
to  enter  no  vessel  near ;  above  all  to  avoid  the  burning 
transport.  But  whether  they  understood  him,  even  if 
they  heard,  he  could  not  guess ;  he  caught  still  the 
beat  of  the  oars  upon  the  waves,  heard  their  chattering 
voices,  even  one  or  two  of  their  expressions  ;  and  then, 
as  the  tide  took  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  shore, 
he  lost  sound  of  those  voices  altogether. 

"  Strange,"  he  muttered,  "  strange  she  blows  not  up — 
many  minutes  have  elapsed  since  I  quitted  her — twenty 
at  the  least,  and  yet  the  explosion  has  not  come.  They 
may  have  boarded  her,  those  men,  have  extinguished  the 


198  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

flames :  there  may  have  been  no  powder  left  in  the 
mag—  Ah!" 

There  came  an  awful  roar  as  he  so  muttered,  a  roar 
such  as  he  had  heard  twenty  times  in  as  many  hours ;  a 
hundred  feet  above  and  behind  him,  as  he  turned  swiftly 
in  the  water,  he  saw  a  fan-shaped  mass  of  flame  ascend- 
ing to  the  skies ;  he  saw  black  objects  amid  that  mass  of 
flame — what  were  they,  beams,  masts,  or  human 
bodies  ? — he  saw  the  smoke  rent  open,  'and  great  pieces 
of  the  transport  floating  or  falling  on  to  the  waters  with 
terrific  crashes.  Then  there  rushed  down  on  him  a 
fresh  mountain  of  blood-coloured  smoke,  with  blazing 
cinders  and  pieces  of  burning  wood,  and  smouldering 
sails  all  borne  along  in  its  midst,  and  it  enveloped  hirn 
and  choked  him,  while  the  burning  matter  fell  on  him 
and  hissed  on  his  wet  hair  and  skin,  so  that  he  was  fain 
to  let  himself  sink  below  the  waves  for  some  few  seconds 
to  escape  the  debris  and  those  suffocating  fumes.  And 
even  as  he  did  so,  and  when  he  arose  to  the  surface  once 
more,  cooled  and  refreshed  by  the  immersion  of  his  face, 
his  first  thought  was  to  utter  a  heartfelt  prayer  for  his 
escape  from  the  awful  fate  that,  but  half  an  hour  ago, 
had  threatened  him  and  been  so  near. 

Scarce  bad  he  done  so  than,  as  he  swam  a  little  now, 
being  eased  by  having  floated  and  trod  water  for  some 
time,  he  saw  beneath  the  smoke,  which  dispersed  as  it 
neared  the  shore  and  drifted  inland,  that  he  himself  was 
close  in  shore.  He  could  perceive  quite  clearly  the  yel- 
low beach  of  Cotentin  on  which  the  incoming  tide  was 
rippling,  and  could  see  also  several  bodies  lying  about  on 
that  beach — soldiers  doubtless  killed  by  the  fire  from 
the  English  war  vessels,  or,  perhaps,  by  the  discharge  of 
the  French  guns  when  turned  upon  them  by  the  parties 
which  had  boarded  their  own  ships.  But  that  was  all, 


ON   THE  ROAD.  199 

except  one  or  two  figures  moving  about  and  bending 
over  them — no  doubt  the  ghouls  who  are  to  be  found 
wherever  a  dead  body  is  after  a  battle. 

And  as  he  glanced  at  these  last  relics  of  the  great 
battle  of  La  Hogue,  his  foot  touched  the  bottom ;  a  mo- 
ment later  he  was  wading  ashore. 

He  stood  once  more  in  France,  the  land  in  which  he 
•would  find  his  child — if  she  was  still  alive. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ON  THE  ROAD. 

HE  stood  once  more  upon  French  ground — then 
fell  half  fainting  on  the  wet,  shining  shingle,  strug- 
gling to  get  his  breath  back,  panting  and  gasping  pain- 
fully. 

Then  came  toward  him  a  figure  terrible  to  behold,  a 
creature  in  the  garb  of  a  woman,  a  knife  at  her  girdle, 
her  pockets,  which  were  outside  her  dress,  bulging,  and 
from  their  openings  pieces  of  gold  lace,  a  silver-hilted 
pistol,  and  other  things  protruding.  But  besides  her 
and  the  dead  bodies  lying  further  inland  upon  the  beach 
nothing  else  was  to  be  seen.  The  thirty  thousand  men 
— some,  and  most  of  them,  those  rapparees  whom  Louis 
had  thought  good  enough  to  send  against  England — 
some  forming  part  of  the  regiments  of  Picardy,  Verde- 
lin,  Le  Calvados,  and  others,  were  not  visible,  although 
he  could  see  on  the  roofs  and  turrets  of  the  forts  that 
they  were  still  there  and  lined  the  coast  for  many  miles. 
Also  he  saw  with  dimmed  eyes  that  the  English  fleet 
was  moving.  It  had  done  its  work  ! 


200  IN*   THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

The  creature  prowling  about  came  nearer,  and  St. 
Georges  sprang  to  his  feet  and  drew  from  the  wet  scab- 
bard which  had  remained  by  his  side  during  his  swim 
ashore,  his  sword. 

"  Wretch,"  he  said,  "  put  down  that  knife  and  come 
no  nearer,  or  I  will  run  you  through,  woman  though  you 
seem  to  be !  Begone,  vulture  ! " 

The  robber  of  the  dead  and  wounded  paused  and 
stared  at  him ;  then  she  assumed  a  whining  tone,  and 
exclaimed  in  her  northern  accent : 

"  Oh,  good  gentleman,  you  mistake.  I  am  no  slayer 
of  injured  men,  but  a  comforter  thereof.  Will  you  not 
take  a  sup  of  good  Nantz  to  ease  you  ?  " 

"  No,  begone !  Away.  Yet  stay.  Where  is  the 
nearest  village  where  I  can  procure  food  ?  Answer  me, 
quickly." 

"  A  mile  off,  good  gentleman ;  there  is  an  auberge 
there.  It  is  very  good,  /keep  it." 

"You!" 

"Yes,  I.  Yes,  an  excellent  inn.  Bnt,"  with  a 
suspicious  glance  at  him,  "  why  not  go  to  the  fort, 
good  gentleman?  The  marshal  is  there  and  that 
king  who  has  been  ruined  by  his  own  subjects  to- 
day." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  go  to  the  fort.  I  am  not  a  sol- 
dier, but  a  sailor — saved  from  one  of  the  transports. 
Direct  me." 

"  Ha ! "  she  said,  with  a  grunt.  "  You  are  not  the 
first.  There  are  many  like  you  who  do  not  want  to  go 
to  the  fort.  A  many  poltroons  who  are  deserting  from 
the  army,  now  defeat  has  come  to  France.  Are  you  de- 
serting too,  friend  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  forts  nor 
the  army.  Direct  me,  I  say." 


ON  THE  ROAD.  201 

"  There  is  the  road,"  the  hag  said,  pointing  to  the 
north  across  the  sandhills.  "  Follow  that  a  mile  and 
you  will  come  to  my  house.  But,"  and  she  came  a  step 
nearer,  "  give  me  some  money,  or  you  will,  perhaps,  be 
followed.  The  others  have  given  me  some.  Give  me  a 
piece,  and  I  will  be  silent." 

"  Away,  wretch ! "  St.  Georges  said.  "  If  the  soldiers 
come  forth  again  you  will  flee  from  them,  not  wait  a 
moment.  I  do  not  fear  you,"  and  pushing  past  her  he 
made  toward  the  road  she  had  indicated,  while  she  stood 
there  muttering  curses  after  him.  Then  she  returned  to 
her  work  of  prowling  among  the  dead  and  dying,  and 
rifling  their  pockets. 

He  made  his  way  among  those  dead  and  dying, 
most  of  whom  were  wounded  French  seamen  who  had 
managed  to  get  ashore  only  to  fall  down  and  expire 
where  they  fell,  and  a  few  of  whom  were  soldiers  on 
laud  who  had  been  struck  by  the  projectiles  from  the 
French  vessels  while  standing  gazing  at  the  sea  fight.  In 
all,  there  were  lying  about  the  dunes  some  hundred  men, 
who  were  in  different  states  of  approaching  death.  One 
thing  he  noticed  as  he  went  on — several  wore  the  col- 
ours of  the  Picardy  Kegiment,  which  he  knew  well,  from 
having  once  been  quartered  with  it.  Therefore,  he  un- 
derstood why  De  Eoquemaure  had  been  on  board  the 
transport.  They  had  doubtless  been  shipped  ready  for 
the  projected  invasion,  and  these  wretched  soldiers  had 
been  more  fortunate  than  he  in  one  way — they  had  at 
least  escaped  ashore  to  die,  instead  of  being  blown  to 
pieces  in  the  explosions  of  the  transports. 

He  made  his  way  through  the  sand,  stopping  once  or 

twice  to  endeavour  to  help  some  dying  wretch  whom  he 

came  across,  and  then  going  on  again  when  he  found  his 

efforts  useless ;  and  so  he  came  at  last  to  what  he  sup- 

14 


202  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

posed  must  be  the  auberge  spoken  of  by  the  woman,  a 
miserable  wooden  structure  with  a  seat  and  a  bench  out- 
.side  the  door. 

Two  horsemen  were  drawn  up  in  front  of  this,  and 
were  speaking  to  some  stragglers  standing  before  them, 
all  of  whom  St.  Georges  noticed  stood  cap  in  hand.  One, 
a  tall  thin  man  with  a  hatchet  face,  dressed  in  gray,  was 
questioning  them ;  the  other,  who  sat  his  horse  by  his 
side,  was  an  elderly  man  of  dark,  swarthy  features,  who 
was,  however,  deathly  pale.  His  eye — a  wandering  one — 
lighted  on  St.  Georges's  the  instant  he  approached  the 
front  of  the  inn,  and  turning  away  from  his  companion 
he  addressed  him  in  good  French,  which,  however, 
St.  Georges  noticed  had  a  strong  accent. 

"  What  uniform  is  yours,  sir  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  do  not 
know  it.  And  you  seem  to  have  been  in  the  water.  Are 
you  one  of  his  Majesty's  naval  officers  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  St.  Georges  replied,  recognising  at  once  the 
danger  he  was  in.  "  And  the  uniform  is  that  of  a  trans- 
port officer." 

"  A  transport  officer ! "  the  other  exclaimed,  turning 
round  suddenly  at  the  words — "  a  transport  officer !  Have 
any  escaped  ?  " 

"  I  have,  at  any  rate,"  St.  Georges  replied. 

"  You  can  then  give  us  some  information,"  the  first 
said.  "  How  many  others  are  there  who  have  also 
escaped  ?  " 

"  Very  .few,  I  imagine.  I  myself  did  so  only  by  swim- 
ming ashore.  And  even  then  the  transport  was  blown 
up  ere  I  had  quitted  it  very  long." 

"  And,"  asked  the  second, "  have  the — English — made 
many  prisoners  ?  " 

"  A  great  number,  I  should  suppose." 

"  God   help  me ! "  the  dark,  pale  man  exclaimed. 


ON  THE  ROAD.  203 

"  Louis  will  do  no  more.  This  is  our  last  chance,  Mel- 
fort" 

As  he  spoke  St.  Georges  knew  in  whose  presence  he 
was — the  presence  of  the  unhappy  James.  Then,  be- 
cause he  knew  also  that  this  place  was  full  of  danger  to 
him — some  naval  officers  of  the  French  fleet  might  by 
chance  have  got  ashore  as  he  had  done,  and  might 
also  come  here  at  any  moment — he  saluted  James, 
and  said  he  must  make  his  way  onward  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  sir  ? "  the  late  King  of 
England  asked.  "  You  will  be  better  in  the  forts.  They 
will  not  refuse  you  succour." 

"  Doubtless.     Yet  I  must  go  on.     I  have  to " 

As  he  spoke  his  eyes  fell  on  the  doorway  of  the  inn, 
and,  brave  man  though  he  was,  what  he  saw  there  appalled 
him. 

Leaning  against  the  doorpost,  regarding  him  fixedly, 
were  two  French  sailors  whom  he  had  last  seen  on  board 
the  transport — two  sailors  who,  as  he  had  leaped  on  board 
followed  by  his  own  men,  had  disputed  his  entrance,  had 
then  been  driven  back  to  the  larboard  side  of  the  ship, 
and  had  hurled  themselves  into  the  shoalwater  and  so 
escaped. 

What  was  there  for  him  to  do  ?  In  another  moment 
it  was  possible — certain — that  they  would  denounce  him, 
that  he  would  be  seized  by  the  half  dozen  soldiers  stand- 
ing or  sitting  about. 

He  had  to  make  his  plans  quickly  ere  these  men 
could  speak — already  he  could  perceive  they  were  about 
to  do  so;  one  touched  the  other  with  his  finger  and 
called  his  attention  to  him,  and  looked  with  an  inquir- 
ing glance  into  his  companion's  eyes,  as  though  asking 
if  by  any  possibility  he  could  be  mistaken  ?  He  had  to 


204  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

act  at  once.  But  how  ?  Then  in  a  moment  an  inspira- 
tion came. 

With  a  cry  he  wrenched  his  sword  from  his  sheath 
and  rushed  at  them,  uttering  exclamations  that  at  least 
he  hoped  might  confuse  the  others  round  and  also  drown 
any  words  of  those  two  men. 

"  Villains  !  Laches  !  Deserters  ! "  he  cried,  as  he 
flew  at  them,  striking  one  with  the  flat  of  his  sword 
and,  with  his  elbows  and  body,  forcing  the  other  into 
the  passage  behind.  "Villains!  You  would  desert  in 
the  hour  of  need !  Fly  the  ship,  would  you  !  "  and 
other  exclamations  in  as  harsh  and  loud  a  tone  as  pos- 
sible. 

And  the  ruse  succeeded  beyond  even  what  he  dared 
to  hope.  The  two  sailors  affrighted,  perhaps  not  hear- 
ing his  words,  and  only  thinking  that  the  terrible  Eng- 
lish officer  meant  to  slay  them  on  land,  as  he  had  almost 
succeeded  in  doing  on  their  own  deck,  fled  down  the 
passage  roaring ;  while  to  add  to  the  hubbub  two  large 
dogs,  sitting  by  the  fire  of  a  room  opening  out  of  that 
passage,  dashed  out  barking  and  yelping.  A  woman 
too  came  from  the  kitchen  and  screamed  for  help,  and 
meanwhile  the  soldiers  who  had  been  lounging  about 
rushed  in  at  the  front  door.  As  for  James  and  Melfort, 
they  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  turned  their  horses 
away.  Such  a  scene  as  this,  which  they  but  half  under- 
stood, had  little  enough  interest  for  them.  An  officer 
punishing  two  deserters,  as  they  assumed  to  be  the 
case,  was  a  trifle  in  comparison  to  the  ruin  which  had 
fallen  forever  on  their  cause  that  day. 

The  sailors  fled  down  the  passage  yelling  "  Au  se- 
cours  !  an  secours  !  "  and  "  Sauvez-nous  !  "  and  after  them 
rushed  St.  Georges,  making  as  much  noise  as  he  could, 
and  so  they  reached  first  a  yard  behind,  and  then  the 


ON  THE  ROAD.  205 

potager,  or  herb  garden.  One  man  dashed  into  an 
outhouse  full  of  billets  of  wood  and  kindlings,  and 
yelled  for  mercy.  "  The  fight  is  over ! "  he  screamed  ; 
"  spare  me,  spare  me ! "  and  in  a  moment  St.  Georges 
had  shut  the  door  and  turned  the  key — fortunately  it 
was  outside — on  him;  then  he  rushed  after  the  other 
down  the  sandy  path  of  the  garden. 

His  object  was  to  drive  the  man  on  as  far  as  possible 
away  from  the  inn,  and 'then  desist  from  the  chase  and 
escape  himself.  Behind  the  garden  there  ran  another 
path  that  passed  up  to  a  copse  of  stunted,  miserable, 
wind-blown  trees ;  if  he  could  get  into  that,  he  might 
succeed  in  avoiding  any  pursuit. 

So  he  let  the  sailor  gain  on  him  as  he  neared  this 
copse,  and  then  another  chance  arose  before  him — an 
unhoped,  undreamed-of  chance !  Tethered  at  the  end 
of  the  garden,  by  the  reins  to  the  paling,  was  a  horse 
belonging  possibly  to  some  bourgeois  who  had  ridden  in 
to  the  inn  from  a  village  inland  and  had  left  his  horse 
at  the  back.  A  chance  sent  by  Heaven  in  its  mercy ! 

Still  the  sailor  ran  on  swiftly,  until,  no  longer  hear- 
ing his  pursuer  behind  him,  he  dared  to  look  over  his 
shoulder,  thinking  the  chase  was  over;  what  he  saw 
when  he  so  looked  caused  him  to  renew  his  speed,  even 
to  yell  with  fresh  terror. 

St.  Georges  was  mounted  now,  he  was  urging  the 
horse  to  its  greatest  pace,  he  would  be  behind  him  in  a 
moment.  And  then  it  would  be  death,  dealt  from  the 
sword  wielded  by  the  terrible  Englishman — almost  the 
man  could  feel  that  sword  through  his  back  as  he  ran 
and  the  hoofs  clattered  behind  him  ! 

He  stumbled  and  nearly  fell  in  the  white  sandy  dust, 
got  up  again  with  a  shriek,  and  then,  in  a  last,  frenzied 
hope,  plunged  into  the  copse  which  he  had  now  reached. 


206  IN  TOE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

And  the  awful  horseman  passed  on — could  that  dust, 
the  poor  wretch  wondered,  have  hidden  him  from  his 
view  ? — a  moment  or  two  more  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
safe.  The  clatter  of  the  hoofs  on  the  road  grew  fainter 
and  fainter;  when  at  last  he  dared  to  peer  from  the 
edge  of  the  little  wood,  the  Englishman  had  disap- 
peared. 

For  a  couple  of  hours  St.  Georges  urged  the  poor 
roadster  to  its  best  speed,  then  slackened  rein  as  the 
wayside  track  reached  the  bay  of  Charenton.  He  was 
safe  now  from  any  recognition — or  rather  exposure — 
the  army  of  Bellefonds  and  all  who  might  by  chance 
have  got  ashore  from  the  destroyed  fleet  were  far  be- 
hind. 

Yet  he  had  been  exposed  to  risks,  too,  on  that  ride. 
Once,  near  the  auberge  he  had  fled  from,  a  farmer  rid- 
ing along  called  to  him  to  stop,  yelling  at  him  to  know 
why  he  was  riding  Dubois's  horse ;  but  his  presence  of 
mind  did  not  fail  him,  and  he  called  back  :  "  Ride  on  and 
see !  The  French  are  defeated,  the  English  have  burned 
Barfleur  and  destroyed  La  Hogue ! "  and  ere  the  man, 
whose  terrorstricken  face  he  long  remembered,  could 
speak  again,  he  was  far  away  from  him. 

Also  he  more  than  once  passed  deserters  from  the 
army — men  who  no  sooner  saw  another  in  a  uniform 
riding  as  though  for  life,  than  they  fled  away  into  woods 
and  copses  or  over  fields,  imagining  that  he  was  in  pur- 
suit of  them.  And,  once,  he  again  come  in  contact 
with  two  together  whose  faces  he  thought  he  remem- 
bered as  he  leaped  on  board  a  French  man-of-war  the 
evening  before — men  who  looked  up  at  him  with  startled 
faces  and  oaths  upon  their  lips — did  they  recognise  him 
as  he  dashed  by  them  ? 

But  at  last  he  had  outdistanced  all  who  might  have 


"I  KNOW  YOUR  FACE."  207 

escaped  from  La  Hogue ;  his  way  lay  along  a  sandy  sea- 
blown  road,  at  the  sides  of  which  were  fields  of  millet, 
sanfoin,  and  sometimes,  though  not  often,  wheat.  And 
ahead  of  him,  against  the  bright  May  sky,  he  saw  the 
tower  and  two  high  spire  steeples  of  the  ancient  cathe- 
dral of  Sainte  Marie  at  Bayeux. 

He  eased  his  horse  at  a  pool  of  fresh  water,  descended 
from  it  and  removed  the  coarse  saddle,  and,  while  it 
drank  eagerly,  rubbed  its  sides  and  back. 

"  Good  horse  ! "  he  said. — "  good  horse !  I  have 
been  a  hard  taskmaster  and  a  stranger  to  you  to-day. 
Heaven  knows  I  would  not  have  urged  you  thus  but  for 
my  necessity.  And  you  have  served  me  bravely,  all 
rough  bred  as  you  are.  Well,  we  will  not  part  now,  and 
some  day,  may  be,  I  can  find  out  your  owner — that  Du- 
bois  the  farmer  spoke  of — and  repay  him  for  the  friend 
I  stole  from  him." 

And  he  sat  down  by  the  animal's  side  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then,  walking  with  the  reins  in  his  hand  and 
carrying  the  saddle  to  ease  it,  he  followed  the  road 
toward  Bayeux. 

It  was  the  road,  too,  to  Troyes  and  Aurelie  de  Roque- 
maure,  the  woman  who  had  to  answer  to  him  for  the 
theft  of  his  child,  and  also  for  her  duplicity  when  they 
had  met  in  Paris ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"I   KNOW  YOUR  FACE." 

THE  deserted  road  along  which  he  now  walked  was, 
in  a  way,  a  relief  to  him.  Nothing  could  have  better 
suited  his  present  needs  than  to  be  thus  outside  the  life 


208  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

of 'any  town  and  free  from  all  observation,  for  he  had 
much  to  meditate  upon — many  plans  to  form  for  his 
safety.  And  of  those  plans,  the  first  to  be  carried  out 
was  to  free  himself  from  any  appearance  of  conspicu- 
ousness  which  would  draw  attention  on  him. 

There  was,  to  begin  with,  the  officer's  jacket  and 
cap  which  he  had  assumed,  and  the  naval  sword  by  his 
side,  from  which  he  had  by  now  removed  all  damp  it 
might  have  received  from  being  in  the  sea.  Yet  how- 
to  deprive  himself  of  the  latter,  and  still  be  safe,  he 
knew  not. 

As  for  the  jacket — which  was,  indeed,  a  short  coat 
filled  with  pockets,  outside  and  in — he  could  dispense 
with  it  very  well.  He  had  dragged  it  on  over  his  own 
coat  when  quitting  the  burning  transport,  simply  as  a 
disguise,  as  a  safeguard.  It  could  now  be  discarded. 

His  clothes — the  plain  English  clothes  which  he  had 
worn  in  London,  and  in  which  he  had  joined  Kooke's 
flagship  and  fought  through  Barfleur  and  La  Hogue  * — 
would  attract  no  attention.  They  were  suitable  to  any 
one  in  the  middle  class ;  but  with  the  cap  it  was  not  the 
same  thing,  since  he  had  nothing  wherewith  to  replace 
it,  and  if  he  rejected  that  he  must  go  bareheaded.  This 
would  not  do ;  he  had,  therefore,  to  cast  about  for  some 
headdress. 

At  last,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  retain  it,  altering 
it  as  well  as  he  was  able  with  his  fingers,  tearing  off  a 
strip  of  lace  round  it  and  throwing  away  the  gilt  cock- 
ade. As  for  the  jacket,  that  was  easily  disposed  of ;  he 
rolled  up  some  stones  in  it  and  flung  it  into  a  pool  of 
water  among  the  reeds  by  the  wayside,  where  it  soon 


*  In  those  days  none  possessed  naval  uniform,  and,  from  ad- 
miral downward,  all  wore  what  they  chose. 


"I  KNOW  YOUR  FACE."  209 

sank  beneath  the  surface.  But  the  sword  still  remained 
— a  good  enough  blade,  in  a  leather  scabbard,  and  with 
not  too  much  to  proclaim  that  it  was  a  sailor's  except 
an  anchor — on,  of  course,  the  eternal  sun,  Louis's  em- 
blem— fastened  to  the  top  of  its  handle.  There  was  also 
a  sword  knot,  which  followed  the  jacket  into  another 
pool,  and  he  decided  that  he  must  take  his  chance  with 
the  weapon  itself. 

"  At  least,"  he  thought  grimly,  "  none  will  have 
much  chance  to  observe  it  closely  if  I  am  using  it 
against  them  ;  if  I  am  not,  I  can  keep  my  hand  on  the 
emblem.  Under  any  circumstances  it  cannot  be  parted 
with." 

And  now  he  neared  Bayeux,  worn  and  spent  with  all 
he  had  gone  through  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours, 
since  he  had  hardly  slept  at  all,  and  that  only  by 
snatches  after  the  battle  off  Barfleur  had  begun ;  also 
his  immersion  in  the  sea  and  his  long  ride  had  made 
him  very  weary. 

"  Rest !  rest ! "  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  a  long  rest 
I  must  have.  And  then  for  Troyes  and  my  child — and 
for  Aurelie  de  Roquemaure.  Ay,  for  her ! " 

He  trudged  along  by  the  'horse's  side,  still  carrying 
the  saddle  over  his  arm  to  ease  it,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  gates  and  walls  of  Bayeux  came  into  sight  that  he 
mounted  it  again.  It  would  have  a  good  night  in  a 
stall  before  long ;  that  small  addition  to  its  day's  work 
would  not  hurt  it  much.  And  he  could  not  present 
himself  on  foot  before  the  custodian  without  raising 
suspicion  of  having  come  a  long  distance,  without  court- 
ing remark. 

"You  are  from  the  coast?"  the  man  asked,  as  he 
rode  through  the  gate.  "How  goes  it  with  the  mar- 
shal's army  there?  Have  they  invaded  England  yet?" 


210  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  Not  yet,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,"  he  answered.  He 
knew  it  would  be  madness  to  appear  cognizant  of  what 
had  taken  place  at  La  Hogue.  The  whole  town  would 
clamour  for  news,  and  he  would  be  for  the  time  the 
most  conspicuous  man  in  it.  "  Not  yet." 

"  We  have  heard  strange  rumours,"  the  man  said. 
"  But  this  morning  one  came  in  from  St.  Mere  Eglise 
who  said  that  loud  sounds  of  firing  were  heard  all  last 
night  out  to  sea ;  and  another,  apecheur  de  mer,  says  that 
great  fleets  have  been  seen  passing  from  the  west.  Man 
Dieu  !  it  cannot  be  that  those  English  chiens  would  dare 
to  attack  us ! " 

"  Impossible,  mon  ami,  impossible !  There  can  be 
no  chance  of  that.  Tourville's  fleet  would  prevent  that." 

"Je  crois  Men.  Yet  why  fire  all  through  the  night? 
One  fires  not  on  imaginary  foes." 

"  True.  Well,  later,  no  doubt,  we  shall  hear  more. 
My  friend,  tell  me  a  good  inn,  where  I  may  rest  awhile." 

"  Oh  !  as  for  that,  there  are  several.  The  Pomine 
cTOr,  among  others,  is  good  and  cheap;  also  Les  Ko- 
chers  de  Calvados.  Try  one  of  those  and  you  will  bo 
content." 

Thanking  him,  St.  Gewges  passed  into  the  old  city, 
though  without  the  slightest  intention  of  going  to  either 
of  those  houses.  His  object  was  to  remove  every  trace 
of  himself  as  he  passed  onward  to  the  goal  ahead  of  him 
— to  obliterate  his  tracks  entirely. 

He  rode  quietly  through  the  town,  therefore,  ob- 
serving what  good  and  comfortable-looking  inns  those 
were  which  the  man  had  mentioned,  but  at  the  same 
time  regretfully  avoiding  them.  For  under  no  circum- 
stances would  he  have  felt  justified  in  alighting  at  either 
— he  doubted  if  he  could  have  afforded  to  do  so.  When 
he  received  Rooke's  hasty  summons  to  join  him  he  had 


"I  KNOW   YOUR  FACE."  211 

but  forty-five  guineas,  saved  after  two  years  of  an  exist- 
ence that  at  best  had  been  a  hard  one.  It  had  been  a 
task  to  accumulate  even  that  sum,  a  task  entailing  care- 
ful living,  abstinence,  almost  even  a  life  of  total  depri- 
vation ;  when  he  had  paid  scrupulously  every  farthing 
he  owed  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  lodged,  the 
sum  had  dwindled  down  to  thirty-five  guineas.  It 
was  little  enough  to  enable  him  now  to  reach  Troyes 
and  provide  for  himself  and  the  horse  he  had  become 
possessed  of  on  the  road,  to  regain  his  child,  and  find 
his  way  back  to  England — if  he  succeeded  in  doing  so. 

To  find  his  way  back  to  England !  Would  that  be 
possible?  Could  he  pass  through  the  north  of  France  un- 
discovered? Could  he,  the  ex-galley  slave,  the  man 
whose  face  had  become  known  to  hundreds  of  persona 
connected  with  the  galleys,  besides  having  been  known 
to  hundreds  of  soldiers  also,  with  whom  he  had  been 
quartered,  hope  to  escape  recognition  ? 

"  God  only  knows ! "  he  murmured  as  he  rode  through 
the  empty  streets  of  the  already  dead-and-gone  city. 
"  He  alone  knows.  Yet,  ere  I  will  be  taken  alive — ere 
the  mark  upon  my  shoulder  shall  ever  testify  against 
me — I  will  end  it  all !  Yet,  courage  !  courage !  At 
present  I  am  safe." 

He  reached  the  neighbourhood  of  the  east  gate,  for 
he  had  traversed  the  whole  of  Bayeux  by  now,  and 
knew  that  if  he  would  rest  for  a  night  in  the  old  city  he 
must  make  choice  of  a  halting  place.  Casting,  there- 
fore, his  eyes  round  the  wide  streets,  he  saw  an  auberge 
— a  place,  indeed,  that  in  France  is  known  as  a  pant — 
a  low-roofed,  poor  drinking  place,  yet  with,  inscribed 
upon  its  walls  over  the  door,  the  usual  words,  "  Loge- 
ment  a  pied  et  a  cheval" 

Around  the  door  several  scraggy  chickens  were  pick- 


212  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

ing  up  anything  they  could  find  in  the  interstices  of  the 
stones,  and  two  or  three  gaunt  half-starved-looking  dogs 
lay  about  basking  in  the  sun  and  snapping  at  real  or 
imaginary  flies.  The  place  looked  none  too  clean.  Yet 
it  was  obscure,  and  it  would  do  for  one  night.  None 
would  molest  him  here. 

"  Can  I  have  a  room  until  daybreak  to-morrow  and  a 
meal  ?  "  he  asked  of  a  slatternly  looking  woman  leaning 
against  the  doorpost;  "  I  have  ridden  some  distance  and 
am  very  fatigued." 

"  Without  doubt,"  she  answered.  "  'Tis  for  that  we 
keep  house.  Come  in." 

"  And  my  horse  ?  " 

"  That  also — hard  by,"  she  said.  "  I  will  call  my 
good  man,"  and  uttering  a  shriek,  which  was  answered 
from  the  back  by  a  gruff  male  voice,  she  called  out 
a^ain  :  "  Come  and  take  the  traveller's  horse,  scelcntt ! 
Mon  Dieu,  have  you  nothing  else  to  do  but  sit  drinking 
there  all  day?" 

A  heavy  footfall  sounded  in  the  passage,  and  presently 
a  large,  unkempt  man  came  along  it,  and,  seeing  the 
traveller  standing  there,  put  up  a  dirty  hand  to  his 
tousled  hair  and  said,  "  Bon  jour,  voyageur"  But  the 
next  moment  he  pushed  that  hair  away  from  his  eyes 
and,  staring  at  Si  Georges,  said :  "  I  know  your  face, 
stranger.  Where  have  I  seen  it  before  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  say  ? "  St.  Georges  asked  in  reply. 
"  I  at  least  do  not  know  yours." 

Yet  he  turned  pale  as  he  answered,  and  regarded  the 
man  fixedly,  for  he  had  recognised  the  other  at  once. 
The  fellow  before  him  had  been  one  of  the  comites  of  a 
galley  in  which  St.  Georges  had  rowed  before  being 
transferred  to  L'Idole — had  thrashed  and  belaboured 
him  often.  Of  all  the  brutal  overseers  this  man  had 


"I   KNOW  YOUR  FACE."  213 

been,  perhaps,  the  most  cruel !  He  was  in  a  trap  if  he 
should  recall  where  he  had  seen  him  before,  a  trap  from 
which  escape  would  be  difficult.  For  at  a  word  from 
him  he  would  never  be  allowed  to  pass  the  gates  of 
Bayeux,  but  would  be  arrested  at  once,  taken  before  the 
president  of  the  city,  and — sent  back  to  the  galleys  if 
not  executed,  as  he  would  undoubtedly  be  if  it  leaked 
out  that  he  had  fought  against  France ! 

"  All  the  same,  I  know  you,"  the  man  replied.  "  I 
must  reflect.  I  must  think.  In  my  time  I  have 
known " 

"  Dinde !  "  shrieked  the  woman  at  him,  "  will  you 
keep  the  traveller  standing  all  day  in  the  passage  while 
you  indulge  in  your  accursed  recollections?  Mon  Dleu  ! 
are  we  so  overrun  with  customers  that  you  have  naught 
else  to  do  but  gape  at  them?  Sot!  take  his  horse  to  the 
forge  outside." 

The  fellow — who  seemed  bemused  by  frequent  drink- 
ings  in  the  back  place  whence  the  termagant  had  called 
him  forth — did  as  he  was  bid,  and,  seizing  the  nag's  head, 
led  it  down  an  alley  running  at  a  left  angle  to  the  house, 
and  so  to  a  forge — in  which,  however,  there  was  no  sign 
of  any  work  being  done.  And  St.  Georges,  whose  old 
soldier  instincts  never  deserted  him,  followed  by  his 
side,  intent  on  seeing  where  the  animal  was  taken.  The 
horse  was  to  him — as  once,  four  years  ago,  another  and  a 
dearly  loved  horse  had  been — his  one  chance  of  reach- 
ing Troyes  easily,  of  finding  his  child,  and — Aurelie  de 
Koquemaure ! 

"  A  poor  place,"  he  said,  speaking  in  as  unnatural  a 
tone  as  possible,  while  all  the  time  he  wondered  if  the 
fellow  recognised  him.  And  he  took  heart  in  recollect- 
ing that  while  he  had  been  subject  to  this  man's  brutali- 
ties, with  scores  of  other  victims,  his  head  had  always 


214:  IN  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

been  either  shaved  or  cropped  close  and  his  mustache 
absent  from  his  face.  Now,  both  hair  and  mustache 
were  grown  again;  it  might  be  that  the  ex-comite  could 
not  recall  where  he  had  known  him.  "  A  poor  place  for 
a  good  horse !  And  none  too  secure,  I  imagine.  It  has 
no  door.  On  a  winter  night  a  horse  stabled  here  would 
be  chilled  to  the  bone." 

"  It  is  not  winter  now,"  the  man  replied.  "  Your 
horse  will  come  to  no  hurt.  And  we  have  no  thieves  in 
Bayeux.  We  send  them  to  the  galleys ! "  and  his  eye 
roved  over  St.  Georges  as  he  spoke. 

The  latter  was,  however,  too  wary  to  start  at  the 
hateful  word ;  moreover,  since  this  man  had  been  an 
overseer  of  the  galleys,  it  was  not  strange,  perhaps,  that 
the  name  of  the  system  by  which  he  had  once  sub- 
sisted should  rise  to  his  mind.  Therefore  he  replied 
quietly : 

"That  is  well.  Now  for  my  room;  but,  first,  a 
meal." 

As  he  sat  over  that  meal,  a  plain  enough  one  as  be- 
fitted the  cabaret  in  which  he  was,  and  partook  of  it  in 
a  squalid  room  which  represented  the  combined  func- 
tions of  living  room  for  the  man  and  his  wife,  drink- 
ing place  for  those  who  patronized  the  house,  and  gen- 
eral common  room,  he  saw  the  fellow  still  casting 
long  glances  at  him  and  regarding  him  from  under  his 
eyelids. 

And  over  and  over  again  he  asked  himself  :  "  Does 
he  recognise  me  ;  and,  if  so,  what  will  he  do  ?  " 

Presently  the  woman — who  had  been  knitting  be- 
hind a  counter  at  which  she  sat,  superintending  the 
bringing  in  of  his  sparse  meal,  and  ordering  her  hus- 
band, whom  she  addressed  as  Andre,  to  call  to  the  serv- 
ing maid  for  one  thing  after  another — left  the  room  to 


"I  KNOW   YOUR  FACE."  215 

see  to  "  monsieur's  appartement."  He  had  said  to  her 
he  was  very  tired ;  he  would  go  to  it  at  once  if  it  was 
ready,  early  in  the  evening  as  it  was. 

Then  he  rose  as  she  disappeared  and  requested  the 
man  to  show  him  where  it  was,  and,  when  he  too  rose, 
followed  him  upstairs. 

It  was  a  poor  enough  place  when  he  got  there,  in 
keeping  with  the  whole  of  the  house — a  room  in  which 
there  was  a  bed  in  one  corner  and  a  chair  in  another, 
and  with  some  washing  utensils  in  a  third,  but  nothing 
more. 

"  Call  me  at  daybreak,"  he  said  to  the  man  Andre. 
"  I  shall  sleep  until  then  if  I  can.  Then  I  must  be  on 
my  way  to — Paris." 

"  Si,  s?',"  the  other  replied.  "  You  shall  be  called," 
and  he  went  toward  the  door,  though,  both  there  and 
before,  he  did  not  cease  to  glance  furtively  at  him. 
These  glances  had  not  been  unobserved,  however,  by 
St.  Georges,  who  in  his  turn  had  been  equally  watch- 
ing him  to  see  if  any  absolute  recognition  appeared  to 
dawn  upon  him.  And  now,  as  the  man  prepared  to  de- 
part and  leave  him  alone,  he  said,  speaking  as  carelessly 
as  possible : 

"Well!  you  thought  you  knew  my  face,  friend. 
Have  you  been  able  to  recall  yet  where  you  saw  it  last?" 
and  he  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

But  the  other  only  shook  his  head,  and  grumbled 
out: 

"  No,  no.  I  cannot  remember.  Perhaps — it  may  be 
— I  am  mistaken." 


216  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN   THE   SNARE. 

HAD  St.  Georges  followed  the  impulse  that  first  oc- 
curred to  him  when  he  recognised  the  man  Andre,  he 
would  have  made  some  excuse  for  not  remaining  a  night 
in  Bayeux,  but  would  have  proceeded  at  once  on  his 
journey  to  Troyes — though  not  to  Paris  as  he  had  said, 
only  with  a  desire  to  throw  dust  in  his  late  oppressor's 
eyes.  For  to  Paris  he  had  no  intention  of  going  under 
any  circumstances,  deeming  it  likely  to  be  full  of  danger 
to  him.  There  he  would  be  known  to  countless  military 
men ;  he  might  be  seen  at  any  moment  and  recognised  ; 
and  the  result  would,  in  all  likelihood,  be  ruinous.  He 
meant,  however,  to  proceed  some  distance  toward  it  and 
then  to  strike  into  another  road,  and  so,  leaving  the 
capital  a  little  to  the  north  of  him,  reach  Troyes.  He 
thought  he  could  do  this  by  branching  off  at  Evreux 
and  passing  through  Fontainebleau,  but  at  present  he 
was  not  even  sure  that  this  would  be  the  direction  to 
take — was,  indeed,  uncertain  if  such  a  course  would 
lead  him  to  the  goal  he  sought,  though  he  believed  it 
would. 

But  the  impulse  to  quit  Andre's  auberge  had  to  be 
resisted  at  once  as  soon  as  it  arose — to  follow  it  would 
be  fraught  with,  possibly,  as  much  danger  as  remaining 
there  for  a  night.  For  if  Andre  really  suspected  who 
he  was,  he  would  not  permit  him  to  quit  Bayeux — not 
at  least  without  extorting  something  from  him  for  his 
silence — while,  if  he  could  not  absolutely  remember 
him,  his  suspicious  would  be  so  much  aroused  by  St. 
Georges's  suddenly  altered  plans  as,  perhaps,  to  abso- 


IN  THE  SNARE.  217 

lutely  verify  them,  or  to  cause  him  to  have  the  stranger 
denied  exit  from  the  city.  Therefore,  at  all  hazards,  he 
must  remain  the  intended  night.  It  was  the  only  way 
in  which  to  avoid  aiding  the  fellow's  hazy  recollections, 
which,  after  all,  might  not  have  taken  actual  form  by 
the  next  day's  dawn.  And  there  was  another  thing : 
however  much  he  might  overmaster  Nature  sufficiently 
to  be  able  to  proceed  without  rest,  the  horse  could  not 
do  so.  He  must,  he  decided,  remain,  and  trust  to 
chance. 

"  What  a  miserable,  what  an  untoward  fate  is  mine ! " 
he  murmured  ;  "  could  Fortune  play  me  worse  ?  Of  all 
men  to  light  on,  that  it  must  be  this  brute — whom,  if  I 
could  do  so  in  safety,  I  would  slay  for  his  countless 
cruelties  to  me  and  others !  It  is  hard,  hard,  hard ! 
There  are  thousands  of  inns  in  France  to  which  I  might 
have  gone  without  meeting  any  who  could  recognise 
me,  yet  at  the  very  first  I  stumble  on  I  encounter  one 
who  knows  me,  and  knows  what  I  have  been.  A 
galley  slave ! — a  man  doomed  for  life,  while  there, 
to  that  brutal  work;  a  man  who,  since  he  has  es- 
caped, is  doomed  to  death.  Ah !  well !  I  am  in  God's 
hands.  As  he  has  protected  me  before,  may  he  do  so 
again ! " 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  as  he  uttered  his 
little  prayer — he  must  sleep  at  all  cost.  Even  though 
Andre  should  denounce  him  to-morrow  ere  he  could 
quit  Bayeux — even  though  he  should  have  to  join  la 
chaine  again  on  its  road  to  the  galleys — ay !  even  though 
the  scaffold  was  to  witness  his  death  in  the  morning,  his 
wornout  frame  must  rest.  He  had  been  without  sleep 
for  now  almost  the  whole  time  that  had  elapsed  since 
Tourville's  fleet  had  first  loomed  up  before  the  English ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  scarce  recall  when  he 
15 


218  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

slept  last.  And  what  terrible  events  he  had  gone 
through  since  that  time ! 

Had  he  tried  to  keep  awake,  he  could  scarce  have  done 
so ;  as  it  was  he  made  no  such  effort.  Wrapped  in  the 
coverlet,  the  sword  unbuckled  but  grasped  in  his  hand, 
he  stretched  his  body  out  and  gave  himself  up  to  slum- 
ber— slumber  deep  and  heavy  as  that  of  a  drugged  man. 

He  would  not  have  awakened  when  he  did,  would 
have  slept  on,  perhaps,  for  hours  longer,  had  not  a  con- 
tinued deep,  droning,  noise — interrupted  now  and  again 
by  a  shriller  one — at  last  succeeded  in  thoroughly  rous- 
ing him — a  noise  that  came  as  it  seemed  from  below 
the  bed  he  lay  on,  and  was  only  interrupted  and  drowned 
once  by  the  booming  of  the  cathedral  clock  striking 
three.  Three !  and  he  had  lain  down  in  early  evening^ 
had  slept  for  hours.  Yet  how  weary  he  still  felt !  It 
was  as  yet  quite  dark — the  dawn  would  not  come  for 
another  hour,  he  knew — what  could  those  sounds  below 
mean?  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  to  listen  and 
hear  more  plainly. 

At  first  he  could  distinguish  nothing  but  the  deep 
hum,  broken  now  and  again  by  the  sharper,  more  me- 
tallic sound ;  but  as  he  bent  over  the  bed — being  now 
quite  wide  awake  and  with  his  senses  naturally  very 
acute — he  recognised  what  those  sounds  were.  And 
more  especially  was  he  enabled  to  do  so  from  the  fact 
that  the  planks  of  the  floor  were  not  joined  very  closely 
together — or  had  come  apart  since  they  were  first  laid 
down — as  he  had  observed  when  he  entered  the  room 
the  day  before. 

The  sounds  were  Andr6  and  his  wife  talking.  At 
this  hour  of  the  night,  or  morning!  And  gradually, 
with  his  senses  strained  to  the  utmost,  he  was  enabled 
to  catch  almost  every  word  that  they  uttered. 


IN  THE  SNARE.  219 

"  But,7'  said  the  woman,  "  I  like  it  not.  It  is  treach- 
ery— bassesse.  And  he  is  beau.  Mon  Dieu  I  mais  il  est 
leau » 

"  Peste  I "  the  man  replied.  "  It  is  always  of  les 
beaux  you  think.  Once  'twas  the  fisher  from  Havre, 
then  Le  Bic,  of  the  marechausse,  now  this  one.  And 
why  base  ?  The  king  pays  a  hundred  gold  pistoles  for 
such  as  he.  And  if  not  to  us,  then  others  will  get  it. 
Why  not  we?" 

"  You  are  sure  ?    You  are  not  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Sure !  From  the  first  moment.  Though  I  held 
my  peace.  Ho  !  why  frighten  the  bird  away  from  the 
nest?  At  first  the  hair  and  mustache  puzzled  me — 
then- 

St.  Georges  started  as  he  heard  this.  Now  he  knew 
of  whom  they  talked. 

" — it  came  back  to  me.  A  galerien  in  the  Raquin, 
a  surly  dog — one  of  the  worst ;  one  of  those  who  had 
been  gentlemen.  Gentlemen!  Ma  foil  I  have  made 
their  backs  tingle  often,  often  ! " 

"  Ay ! "  muttered  St.  Georges  between  his  teeth, 
"  you  have !  'Tis  true." 

"  You  are  certain  ?  "  the  woman  asked  again.  "  A 
mistake  would  be  terrible — would  send  you  back  to 
the  galleys  yourself,  only  as  beaten  slave — not  overseer." 

"  Certain !  So  will  the  others  be  when  he  is  taken — 
alive  or  dead.  There  on  his  shoulder,  ma  belle,  they 
will  see  proof — the  fleur-de-lis.  Fortunate  for  him  he 
was  not  a  religious  prisoner,  a  victim  of  our  holy 
Church.  Otherwise  it  would  have  been  burnt  into  his 
cheek,  and  he  would  have  been  so  marked  he  could  not 
have  escaped  a  day  ! " 

"  Will  it  be  alive— or  dead  9  " 

"  Dead,  if  he  resists,  at  daybreak,  in  an  hour.    Then 


220  IN  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

they  will  come  for  him  ;  it  is  arranged.  And  take  him 
— doubtless  slay  him.  What  matter?  The  reward  is 
the  same.  '  Alive  or  dead,'  says  the  paper — they  showed 
it  me  at  La  Poste — '  one  hundred  gold  pistoles.'  And 
the  horse  will  be  ours,  too." 

"  How  will  they  do  it  ?  " 

"  Hist !  Listen.  And  get  you  to  bed  before  they 
come.  You  need  not  be  in  it.  I  have  arranged  ityje 
te  dis." 

"  But  how— how— how  ?  " 

"  I  will  awake  him,  bid  him  hurry ;  tell  him  he  is 
discovered,  lost,  unless  he  flies.  Then,  doubtless,  he 
will  rush  to  the  door,  and,  poof !  they  will  cut  him  down 
as  he  rushes  out.  I  have  told  them  he  is  violent.  They 
must  strike  at  once.  Tu  comprends  9  " 

"  Yes,"  and  it  seemed  to  the  listener  as  if  the  woman 
had  answered  with  a  shudder. 

"  And,"  the  man  said  again,  "  the  horse  will  be  ours, 
too.  I  have  not  told  them  of  that.  No !  we  shall  have 
that  and  the  pistoles.  Now,  get  you  to  bed.  They  will 
be  here  ere  long.  The  day  is  coming.  His  last  on 
earth  if  he  runs  out  suddenly  or  resists." 

The  listener  heard  a  moment  or  two  later  a  steal  thy 
tread  upon  the  stairs  outside — a  tread  that  passed  his 
door  and  went  on  upstairs  and  was  then  no  more  ap- 
parent. It  was  the  woman  withdrawing  from  the  place 
where  he  was  to  be  slain. 

To  be  slain  !  Possibly.  Yet,  he  determined,  not  as 
the  man  had  arranged  it.  To  be  slain  it  might  be,  but 
not  without  a  struggle,  an  attempt  for  life;  without 
himself  slaying  others. 

He  crept  to  the  window  after  finding  that  the  door 
had  been  locked  from  the  outside — no  doubt  during  his 
long  slumber! — and  gazed  out.  It  was  not  yet  near 


IN  THE  SNARE.  221 

daybreak  ;  the  miserable  street  was  still  in  darkness  ;  in 
no  window  was  there  any  light — but  above  in  the 
heavens  there  was,  however,  a  gray  tinge  that  told  of 
the  coming  day.  Then  he  looked  around. 

Beneath  the  window,  which  was  a  common  dormer 
one,  as  is  almost  always  the  case  in  northern  France  and 
the  Netherlands,  there  was  nothing  but  the  rain  pipe 
running  beneath  it  along  the  length  of  the  house.  Be- 
low was  the  street  full  of  cobble  and  other  stones — a 
good  thirty  feet  below!  To  drop  that  height,  even 
though  hanging  by  his  hands  to  the  rain  pipe  and  there- 
by diminishing  the  distance  some  eight  feet  would,  how- 
ever, be  impossible ;  it  would  mean  broken  ankles  and 
legs  and  dislocated  thigh  bones.  Yet,  what  else  to  do  ? 
Behind  him  was  the  locked  door;  in  front,  through  the 
window,  an  escape  that  would  leave  him  mangled  and  at 
the  mercy  of  those  who  were  coming  to  slay  him. 

Still  peering  out  into  the  darkness — that  was  now  not 
all  darkness — he  saw  about  six  feet  to  the  left  of  him  the 
mouth  of  the  perpendicular  pipe  into  which  the  hori- 
zontal one  emptied  itself  and  which  must  run  down  the 
side  of  the  house.  His  chance,  he  thought,  was  here. 
Yet  if  he  would  avail  himself  of  it  he  must  be  quick ; 
the  day  would  come  ere  long;  at  any  moment  those 
who  had  been  summoned  by  the  landlord  must  be  ap- 
proaching ;  he  would  be  discovered. 

He  fastened  his  sword  to  his  back  with  his  sash — he 
could  not  drag  it  by  his  side — then  head  first  he  crept 
out  of  the  window,  testing  with  his  right  hand  the 
water  pipe — for  six  feet  he  would  have  to  rely  upon  that 
to  fend  him  from  destruction,  to  prevent  him  from  roll- 
ing off  the  roof  to  death  below  on  the  cobblestones ! 
With  that  right  hand  pressed  against  it  he  could — if  it 
did  not  give  way  under  the  pressure — reach  the  spout 


222  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

of  the  upright  pipe.  As  he  tried  it  it  seemed  strong, 
securely  fastened  to  the  lip  of  the  roof ;  he  might 
venture. 

Face  downward,  his  chest  to  the  sloping  roof,  of 
which  there  was  three  feet  between  the  sill  of  the  win- 
dow and  the  pipe  at  the  edge,  he  lowered  himself — his 
right  hand  on  the  pipe,  his  left,  until  obliged  to  loose 
it,  clinging  to  the  window  frame.  And  at  last  he  was  on 
the  roof  itself,  with  the  right  hand  still  firmly  pressed 
against  that  pipe,  and  the  top  joints  of  his  left-hand 
fingers,  and  even  his  nails,  dug  into  the  rough  edges  of 
the  tiles.  That  frail  pipe  and  those  tiles  were  all  there 
was  now  to  save  him — nothing  else  but  them  between 
him  and  destruction !  Slowly  he  thus  propelled  himself 
along,  feeling  every  inch  of  the  pipe  carefully  ere  he 
bore  any  weight  on  it,  feeling  also  each  tile  he  touched 
to  see  if  it  was  loose  or  tight.  For  he  knew  that  one 
slip — one  detached  tile,  one  inch  of  yielding  of  the  pipe 
— and  he  would  go  with  a  sudden  rush  over  the  sloping 
precipice  to  the  stones  below.  And  as  he  dragged  him- 
self along,  hearing  the  grating  of  his  body  and  the 
scraping  of  the  buttons  on  his  clothes  against  the  roof, 
he  prayed  that  the  man  watching  below  might  not  hear 
them  also.  At  last  he  reached  the  mouth  of  the  up- 
right pipe,  grasped  it,  and,  as  before,  pressed  against  it 
to  discover  if  it  was  firm — as  it  proved  to  be — then  drew 
his  body  up  over  it,  and  gradually  prepared  to  descend 
by  it,  feeling  with  his  feet  for  the  continuance  of  it 
below. 

But,  to  his  horror,  there  was  no  such  continuance ! 
His  legs,  hanging  down  from  his  groin  over  the  roof 
— while  his  body  was  supported  on  the  wide  mouth  of 
the  pipe  and  by  his  hands  being  dug  into  the  sides  of 
the  tiles,  where  they  were  joined  to  each  other — touched 


IN  THE  SNARE.  223 

nothing  but  the  bare  space  of  the  wall.  There  was  no 
pipe !  It  was  broken  off  short  a  foot  below  the  hori- 
zontal one,  and  the  wall,  he  could  feel,  was  damp  from 
the  water  which  had  escaped  and  flowed  down  from 
where  it  was  so  broken. 

He  was  doomed  now,  he  knew ;  which  doom  should 
he  select — to  fall  below  and  be  crushed  and  mangled, 
or  return  to  the  room  and,  refusing  to  come  out,  be 
either  done  to  death  or  taken  prisoner?  As  he  pondered 
thus  in  agony,  away  down  the  street  he  heard  voices 
breaking  on  the  morning  air,  he  heard  the  clank  of 
loosely  fastened  sabres  on  the  stones — they  were  coming 
to  take  him — to,  as  Andre  had  said,  "  cut  him  down." 
And,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  or  why  in  his  frenzy 
he  decided  thus,  he  let  his  body  further  down  into 
space,  and,  with  his  hands  grasping  the  pipe's  mouth, 
swung  over  that  space.  And  once,  ere  he  let  go,  which 
he  must  do  in  another  moment,  for  the  sides  of  the 
spout  were  cutting  into  his  palms,  he  twisted  his  head 
and  glanced  down  beneath  him. 

Then  as  he  did  "so  he  gave  a  gasp — almost  a  cry  of 
relief  unspeakable.  Beneath  him,  not  two  yards  below 
his  dangling  feet,  was  the  stone  roof  of  the  porch  or 
doorway  of  the  inn.  The  fall  to  that  could  not  break 
his  legs  surely  ! — he  prayed  God  the  sound  of  it  might 
not  disturb  the  man  within,  who  must  be  on  the  alert. 

Closing  his  feet  so  that  both  should  alight1  as  nearly 
as  possible  on  the  same  spot,  pressing  his  body  as  near 
to  the  wall  as  he  could,  he  let  go  the  spout  and  dropped. 


224:  IN  THE   DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ANOTHER   ESCAPE. 

HE  alighted  in  the  exact  middle  of  the  porch  roof 
and  fell  with  his  ankles  against  the  foot-high  raised  par- 
apet. Then  he  paused  a  moment  ere  deciding  what  he 
should  do  next. 

The  sound  of  voices  and  clanking  sabres  were  com- 
ing nearer — also  it  would  soon  now  be  light.  And  he 
wondered  that  he  heard  no  noise  from  the  man  watch- 
ing within ;  wondered  that  he  was  not  staring  about  for 
those  who  were  coming ;  almost  wondered  that  he  was 
not  standing  at  the  door  with  it  open,  ready  to  go  out 
and  meet  them. 

One  thing  St.  Georges  recognised  as  necessary  to  be 
done  at  once,  viz.,  to  quit  the  roof  of  the  porch.  There 
was  no  safety  for  him  there ;  the  instant  Andre  entered 
his  room  he  would  perceive  he  was  flown,  would  rush  to 
the  window,  and,  looking  out,  would  doubtless  perceive 
him  crouching  and  huddled  up.  He  must  quit  that, 
and  at  once.  But  where  ?  Then  suddenly  he  bethought 
him  of  the  stable  that  ran  off  at  left  angles  from  the 
house,  close  by  the  porch  itself.  That  would  be  his  best 
place  of  safety ;  moreover,  he  would  have  the  horse  to 
his  hand ;  on  it  he  might  yet  escape.  And  also  from 
the  open  door  of  the  stable  he  could  reconnoitre,  observe 
what  happened,  what  must  happen,  in  the  next  few  mo- 
ments. For  now  the  voices  of  those  who  were  approach- 
ing sounded  very  near.  A  little  while,  and  his  fate  now 
trembling  in  the  balance  would  be  decided. 

He  lowered  himself  quickly  over  the  side  of  the  door- 
way roof — having  but  a  distance  of  four  or  five  feet  to 


ANOTHER  ESCAPE.  225 

drop  when  hanging  down — and  observed  that  still  the 
door  was  fast  and  that  there  was  no  sign  of  Andre 
about — doubtless  he  was  waiting  for  the  men  to  come, 
ere  opening  it !  Immediately  afterward  he  touched  the 
ground  and  turned  his  steps  to  the  alley  leading  to  the 
stable  and  swiftly  passed  up  to  it,  keeping  under  the 
shelter  of  a  low  wall.  So  far  he  was  safe ! 

The  horse  whinnied  a  little  as  he  entered — already 
the  creature  had  come  to  know  him  well,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  his  kindly  treatment — but  he  silenced  it  at  once 
by  placing  his  arm  over  its  mouth  and  nostrils,  then 
seized  the  bridle  and  saddle  and  prepared  it  ready  for 
mounting,  doing  so  very  quietly,  for  now  the  men  were 
clfcfee  at  hand  !  This  he  did  very  rapidly,  yet  determi- 
nately,  for,  the  animal  once  saddled,  his  chance  would  be 
gtill  better.  He  had  made  his  plans:  if,  when  he  was 
discovered  missing,  any  should  advance  down  the  alley 
to  seek  for  him,  or  to  search  if  the  horse  was  gone,  he 
had  resolved  to  mount  as  they  advanced  and  to  charge 
through  them.  Then,  when  he  had  done  all  that  was 
necessary,  he  removed  his  sword  from  his  back,  drew  it 
from  the  sheath  and  affixed  the  latter  to  his  side.  He 
was  ready  now. 

And  not  too  soon !  In  the  now  gathering  light, 
sombre  and  lead-coloured,  with,  above,  some  clouds  from 
which  a  misty  rain  was  falling  slightly,  he  saw  three 
men  belonging  to  the  Garde  de  la  Poste  arrive  in  front 
of  the  door.  One,  a  sergeant,  struck  lightly  with  his 
finger  on  the  door  and  bent  his  ear  against  it. 

"  Si,  si  I "  he  heard  this  man  say,  a  second  after,  evi- 
dently in  reply  to  Andre  from  within,  "  quite  ready. 
Send  him  forth."  And  still  he  kept  his  ear  to  the  side 
post.  A  moment  later  he  spoke  again,  also  doubtless  in 
answer  to  a  question  from  within. 


226  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Nay,  have  no  fear,"  he  said ;  "  once  outside  he  is 
ours,"  and  he  turned  to  the  other  two  and  gave  them 
some  orders  which  St.  Georges  could  not  overhear.  He 
could  see,  however ;  and  what  he  saw  was,  that  under 
their  superior's  directions  each  of  the  others  drew  their 
heavy  dragoon  sabres — for  to  that  branch  of  the  army 
the  Garde  de  la  Poste  belonged — and  placed  themselves 
one  on  either  side  of  the  porch. 

Then  all  listened  attentively. 

A  moment  later,  from  the  first  and  top  floor,  through 
the  open  window  from  which  St.  Georges  had  escaped, 
they  heard  the  shouts  of  the  man  Andre ;  and  St. 
Georges  heard  them,  too,  and  grasped  his  sword  more 
firmly,  and  with  them  came  from  the  other  side  of  the 
house  a  cry  from  the  woman. 

"  Carogne  !  "  exclaimed  the  sergeant,  "  the  galley  boy 
is  giving  trouble — Andre  cannot  induce  him  to  descend. 
Yet,  hark  !  he  comes  !  listen  to  his  tread  on  the  stairs — 
he  is  rushing  down.  Be  ready ! "  and  as  he  spoke  the 
two  men  raised  their  swords. 

Again  all  heard  the  voice  of  Andre  shouting  within, 
the  woman  screaming,  too ;  the  door  was  fumbled  at, 
and  in  the  still,  dim,  misty  light  St.  Georges  saw  a  form 
rush  out,  and  a  minute  later  fall  shrieking  heavily  to  the 
ground,  cut  down  by  both  sabres  of  the  dragoons. 

"  We  have  him !  we  have  him ! "  the  sergeant  shouted. 
"  Come  forth,  man ;  he  is  ours ! " 

And  as  he  spoke  St.  Georges  leaped  into  the  saddle, 
knowing  that  the  time  had  almost  come. 

Another  moment,  and  he  heard  one  of  the  dragoons, 
who  had  been  bending  over  the  fallen  man,  exclaim : 

"  Mon  dieu  !  What  have  we  done  ?  This  is  no  gale- 
rien,  but  Andre  himself ! " 

"  What ! "  bawled  the  sergeant.   "  What !  Mon  dieu  ! 


ANOTHER  ESCAPE.  227 

it  is."  .Then  he  said  in  a  horrorstricken  hoarse  voice, 
"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi  I  I  fear  so.  His  head  is  in  half,"  the  man 
replied.  And  with  a  look  of  terror  he  addressed  his 
comrade  :  "  That  was  your  stroke,  not  mine.  I  struck 
him  on  the  shoulder.  Thank  God,  his  blood  is  on  your 
head ! " 

"  FicJite !  "  exclaimed  the  second,  a  man  of  harder 
mettle.  "What  matters?  It  is  our  duty.  And  the 
piege  was  his,  not  ours.  He  was  a  fool.  But  where — 
where  is  the  galerien  ?  We  must  have  him  ! " 

"  Into  the  house,"  exclaimed  the  sergeant,  "  into  the 
house !  The  woman  screams  no  more — doubtless  he  has 
murdered  her.  In,  I  say,  and  seek  for  him ;  scour  cellar 
and  garret.  In,  in  !  "  and  together  they  rushed  into  the 
cabaret,  finding,  as  they  pushed  the  door  further  open, 
Andre's  wife  lying  fainting  in  the  passage.  She  had 
followed  her  husband  down  the  stairs  and  witnessed 
his  end. 

That  husband's  greed — his  withholding  from  the 
others  the  fact  that  the  escaped  galley  slave  had  a  good 
horse — led  to  that  galley  slave's  escape.  For,  all  un- 
knowing that,  not  twenty  paces  off,  the  horse  was  there 
ready  saddled  to  bear  him  away,  they  never  thought  of 
the  stable,  but,  instead,  plunged  into  the  inn  and  com- 
menced at  once  roaming  from  room  to  room  searching 
for  him. 

As  they  did  so,  his  opportunity  came.  Swiftly  he 
led  the  animal  down  the  alley  to  the  door — it  had  no 
other  exit,  or  he  would  have  escaped  by  it — equally 
swiftly  he  led  it  some  distance  down  the  street,  praying 
to  God  all  the  time  that  its  hoofs  striking  on  the  stones 
might  not  reach  their  ears,  and  sweating  with  fear 
and  apprehension  as  he  heard  their  shouts  and  calls 


228  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

to  one  another.  Then,  when  he  was  fifty  yards  away 
from  the  house,  he  jumped  into  the  saddle,  patted 
his  horse  on  the  neck,  and  rode  swiftly  for  the  East 
Gate. 

Whether  he  would  get  through  before  the  whole 
east  part  of  the  city  was  alarmed — as  he  knew  it  soon 
must  be — he  could  not  tell  yet.  If  the  gates  were  not 
open,  he  was  as  much  lost  as  before ;  he  must  be  taken. 
But  would  they  be  so  open?  Would  they?  As  he 
prayed  they  might,  the  cathedral  clock  rang  out  again, 
struck  four. 

"  0  God  !  "  he  murmured,  "  grant  this  may  be  the 
hour.  Grant  it !  grant  it ! " 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  his  prayer  was  heard. 
Nearing  the  East  Gate,  placed  on  the  west  side  of  a 
branch  of  the  river  Eure,  he  saw  the  bascule  descend- 
ing ;  he  knew  that  four  o'clock  was  the  hour.  Also  he 
saw  several  peasants  standing  by,  ready  to  pass  over  it 
into  the  country  beyond,  doubtless  either  to  fetch  in 
produce  for  the  city  or  going  to  their  work.  He  was 
safe  now,  he  felt ;  if  none  came  behind,  there  would  be 
no  hindrance  to  his  exit. 

"  You  ride  early,  monsieur,"  the  keeper  said,  glanc- 
ing up  at  him  from  his  occupation  of  throwing  down 
some  grain  to  his  fowls,  which  he  had  just  released  for 
the  day.  Then,  taking  out  a  pocketbook,  "  Your  name, 
monsieur,  and  destination?"  he  asked. 

"Destination,  Paris.  Name "  and  he  paused. 

He  had  not  anticipated  this.  Yet  he  must  give  a  name 
and  at  once;  at  any  moment  from  the  city  might  appear 
a  crowd,  or  the  dragoons  shouting  to  the  man  to  bar  his 
egress.  "Name,  Dubois.  And  I  ride  in  haste.  You 
have  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  News !  no,"  exclaimed  the  man,  while  even  the 


ANOTHER  ESCAPE.  229 

peasants  going  to  their  toil  pricked  up  their  ears. 
"What  news?" 

"  Tourville's  fleet  is  ruined — burned — by  the  English  ! 
Stop  me  not.  I  ride  to  carry  it.  By  orders ! " 

" Mon  Dieu  !  "  the  man  exclaimed,  "  by  the  English. 
Tourville  defeated  by  them  ?  It  is  impossible  ! " 

"  It  is  true,"  while  as  he  spoke — still  moving  across 
the  now  lowered  drawbridge  as  he  did  so — one  of  the 
peasants,  an  old  woman,  wailed  :  "  My  boy  was  there — in 
the  Ambitieux !  Is  that  burnt? " 

"  I  do  not  know,  good  woman,"  he  replied,  unwilling 
to  tell  the  poor  old  creature  the  worst.  "  I  must  not 
tarry." 

And  in  a  moment  he  had  put  the  horse  to  the  gallop. 
He  had  left  Bayeux  behind.  Out  of  the  jaws  of  death 
he  had  escaped  once  more.  "  But,"  he  asked  himself, 
"  for  how  long  ?  How  long  ?  " 

That  danger  which  he  had  escaped  so  soon  after  set- 
ting foot  in  France  was  not  again  equalled  on  the  road, 
and  a  week  later  he  neared  the  old  fortified  town  of 
Rambouillet.  He  had  progressed  by  obscure  ways  to 
reach  it,  avoiding  every  large  city  or  town  to  which  he 
had  approached,  and  skirting,  either  on  the  north  or 
south,  Caen,  Evreux,  and  Bernay.  He  was  drawing 
nearer  to  Troyes  now,  nearer  to  where  his  child  was,  if 
still  alive,  nearer  to  the  satisfaction  he  meant  to  have 
by  his  denunciation  of  the  treachery  of  Aurelie  de 
Roquemaure. 

Yet,  as  he  so  progressed,  he  asked  himself  of  what 
use  would  such  denunciation  be — of  what  importance 
in  comparison  with  the  regaining  of  Dorine?  That 
was  all  in  all  to  him;  the  supreme  desire  of  his  life 
now — to  regain  her,  to  escape  out  of  France  once 


230  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

more;  to  earn  subsistence  sufficient  for  them  both  in 
England.  Beyond  that,  the  satisfaction  of  taxing 
Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure  with  her  treachery — the 
treachery  of,  with  her  mother,  appearing  to  sympathize 
with  him  when  they  first  met  at  the  manoir,  of  express- 
ing that  sympathy  again  in  Paris  during  their  brief  en- 
counter outside  the  Louvre,  of  her  false  and  lying  words 
to  Boussac — would  be  little  worth.  Yet,  small  as  that 
satisfaction  would  be,  something  within  told  him  he 
must  obtain  it ;  must  stand  face  to  face  with  her  and 
look  into  those  clear  gray  eyes  that  had  the  appearance 
of  being  so  honest  and  were  so  false ;  must  ask  her  why, 
since  she  so  coveted  all  that  his  and  his  child's  life 
might  deprive  her  of,  she  had  stooped  to  the  duplicity 
of  pretending  to  sympathize  with  him ;  to  the  baseness 
of  stealing  his  child  from  the  man  who  had  himself 
stolen  it — he  knew  not  why ;  to  the  foul  meanness  of 
accompanying  her  menial — herself  masked  to  prevent 
detection — and  urging  him  on  to  murder;  herself,  by 
complicity,  a  murderess !  And  as  he  so  pondered,  he 
reflected  also  with  what  eager,  cruel  pleasure — for  he 
knew  now,  and  almost  shuddered  at  knowing,  that  the 
wrongs  inflicted  on  him  had  turned  him  toward  cruelty 
— he  would  tell  her  of  how  her  vile  brother  had  died 
before  his  eyes. 

So,  determinately,  he  rode  on,  nearing  Rambouillet, 
yet  feeling  as  though  sometimes  he  could  go  no  further, 
must  drop  from  his  horse  into  the  road.  In  the  week 
since  he  escaped  from  Bayeux  he  had  been  feeling  that 
day  by  day  he  was  becoming  ill,  that  all  he  had  gone 
through — the  immersion  in  the  sea,  the  intensity  of  his 
excitement  at  Bayeux,  his  long  rides  and  exposure  to 
the  weather — was  like  ere  long  to  overwhelm  him. 
Sometimes  for  hours  he  rode  almost  unconscious  of  what 


THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS.  231 

was  passing  around  him ;  he  burned  with  a  consuming 
fever,  his  limbs  and  head  ached  and  his  thirst  was 
terrible. 

Yet,  urged  on  and  on  by  the  object  he  had  in  view, 
he  still  went  forward  until,  at  last,  he  halted  outside  the 
town  he  had  now  come  to,  beneath  the  walls  of  the  old 
castle  of  Eambouillet. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

THE   FLEUB-DE-LIS'. 

THE  hot  sun  of  those  last  days  of  May  beat  down  on 
the  white  roads  and  the  orchards  and  the  pastures  sur- 
rounding the  town  of  Eambouillet,  and  shone  also  with 
unpleasant  strength  upon  La  Baronne  de  Louvigny,  be- 
ing driven  back  to  her  house  within  the  walls.  And 
madame's  aristocratic  countenance,  handsome  as  she 
was,  showed  signs  of  irritation — perhaps  from  the  effects 
of  the  heat,  perhaps  from  other  things — while  her  dark 
eyes,  glancing  out  from  under  the  hood  of  the  summer 
caleche  in  which  she  was  lying  back,  looked  as  though 
they  belonged  to  a  woman  who  was  not,  at  the  present 
moment  at  least,  in  the  best  of  humours. 

She  was  still  a  very  young  woman  and  was  also  a 
widow,  the  baron  having  been  killed  in  a  duel  some  few 
years  ago,  which  had  not  grieved  her  in  the  least,  since 
he  was  an  old  man  who  had  married  her  for  her  good 
looks  and,  possibly,  her  more  aristocratic  connections 
than  he  himself  possessed ;  yet,  in  spite  of  these  advan- 
tages, there  were  things  in  her  existence  which  annoyed 
her.  Among  these  things  was,  for  instance,  one  which 
was  extremely  irritating — namely,  that  for  four  years 


232  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

now  she  had  been  required  to  abstain  from  visiting  Paris 
or  the  court,  either  at  Versailles,  Marley,  or  St.  Ger- 
mains,  and  this  notwithstanding  that  her  blood  was  of 
the  most  blue  and  that  she  claimed  connection  with  the 
most  aristocratic  families  in  France. 

Truly  it  was  an  annoying  thing  to  be  young,  hand- 
some, and  very  well  to  do — owing  to  her  not  too  aristo- 
cratic husband,  the  late  baron — and  to  be  of  the  blue 
blood  owing  to  her  own  family,  and  yet  to  be  under  a 
cloud  in  consequence  of  a  scandal — of  being  mixed  up  in 
an  affair,  a  scene,  or  tragedy,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
altogether  hush  up.  At  least  she  found  it  annoying, 
and,  so  finding  it,  revolted  a  good  deal  at  the  ban  laid 
on  her.  Still,  revolt  or  repine  as  she  might,  Louis's 
word  was  law  in  all  matters  of  social  importance,  and 
she  was  forced  to  bow  to  it,  in  the  hopes  that,  as  time 
passed  on,  the  ban  might  be  removed.  But  it  was  not 
strange,  perhaps,  that  in  so  bowing,  her  temper,  always 
a  hot,  passionate  one,  had  grown  a  little  uncertain. 

It  did  not  serve  to  improve  that  temper  on  this  hot 
day  that,  at  a  moment  when  the  caleche  emerged  into  a 
particularly  sunny  portion  of  the  road,  unsheltered  by 
either  tree  or  bank,  it  should  suddenly  come  to  a  stop  and 
expose  her  to  the  full  glare  of  the  sun  itself.  Moreover, 
the  jerk  with  which  the  horses  were  pulled  up  gave  her 
a  jar  which  did  not  tend  to  better  matters. 

"  What  are  you  stopping  for  ?  "  she  asked  angrily  of 
one  of  the  lackeys  who  had  by  now  jumped  down  from 
behind.  "  I  bade  you  take  me  back  as  soon  as  possible. 
And  why  in  this  broad  glare?  Animal!"  and  she 
drew  her  upper  lip  back,  showing  her  small  white  teeth. 

"  Pardon,  my  lady,"  the  man  said — he  knowing  the 
look  well,  and  remembering  also  that,  before  to-day,  it 
had  boded  punishment  for  him  and  his  fellows — "  but 


THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS.  233 

there  is  a  man  lying  in  the  road,  almost  under  the  hoofs 
of  the  horses.  And  his  own  stands  by  his  side." 

"Well!  What  of  that?  Thrust  them  aside  and 
drive  on.  Am  I  to  be  broiled  here  ?  " 

"  Pardon,  my  lady,"  the  man  again  ventured  to  say 
submissively,  "  but  it  is  not  a  peasant.  He  looks  of  a 
better  class  than  that." 

"  What  is  he,  then,  a  gentleman  of  the  seigneurie  ?  " 
And  she  deigned  to  lean  out  of  the  caleche  somewhat,  as 
though  to  obtain  a  glance  of  the  person  who  had  barred 
her  way.  "  Has  he  been  drinking  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  lady.  But  his  head  is  hurt. 
He  may  have  been  attacked  or  injured  by  his  fall.  He 
is  plainly  dressed,  but  carries  a  sword.  He  is  young, 
too,  and  wears  a  mustache  like  an  officer." 

"  I  will  see  him.     Open  the  door." 

The  lackey  did  as  he  was  bidden,  his  fellow  jumping 
down  also  from  behind,  and  each  of  them  offering  an 
arm  to  their  imperious  mistress  to  aid  her  descent  from 
the  high  vehicle  ;  then  madame  la  baronne  advanced  to 
the  front  of  her  horses'  heads  and  gazed  down  at  the 
unconscious  man  lying  in  the  dust. 

"  Turn  his  face  up,"  she  said,  "  and  let  me  see  it." 
The  servants  doing  as  she  bade  them,  and  parting  also 
the  long  hair  that  fell  over  the  face,  the  woman  gave  a 
start  and  muttered  under  her  lips,  "  My  God  ! "  And 
at  the  same  time,  beneath  her  patches  and  powder,  she 
turned  very  pale.  "  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  asked  a  moment 
later,  in  a  constrained  voice,  while  still  she  gazed  at  him. 

"  I  think  not,  my  lady,"  one  of  the  men  said  who 
was  kneeling  beside  the  man  in  the  road.  "  His  heart 
beats.  It  may  be  a  vertigo  or  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
Certainly  he  is  not  dead." 

"  Take  him  up,"  she  said,  "  and  carry  him,  you  two, 
16 


234  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

into  the  town.  Attach  his  horse,  also,  to  the  carriage 
and  lead  it  in.  Follow  at  once ; "  and  she  re-entered 
the  caleche. 

"  Where,  madame,  shall  we  place  him  ?  "  the  lackey 
asked,  who  had  first  spoken.  With  the  corps-de-gar  dc, 
my  lady  ?  " 

"  No  ;  bring  him  to  my  house.  He  shall  be  attended 
to  there.  He — he  may  be  a  gentleman,  and  the  corps- 
de-garde  are  rough.  We  will  attend  to  him.  Now  bid 
the  coachman  drive  on,  and  follow  at  once ;  do  not  lag 
with  him,  or  you  shall  be  punished." 

Slowly  the  carriage  proceeded,  therefore,  into  Ram- 
bouillet,  and  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Louvigny,  lying 
back  in  it,  white  to  her  lips,  pondered  over  the  face  that 
a  few  minutes  before  had  been  turned  up  to  her  gaze. 

"  Alive,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  De  Vannes,  and 
alive!  And  in  my  power;  another  half  hour  and  he 
will  be  in  my  house.  So — he  was  not  lost  in  the  galley 
that  those  vile  English  sunk !  And  Raoul  is  no  nearer 
to  the  wealth  he  needs  than  ever — no  nearer.  And,  my 
God !  the  man  lives  who  called  me  '  wanton '  in  the 
road  that  night,  the  man  whom  I  tried  to  slay,  the  man 
through  whom  came  my  exposure.  And  in  my  house  ! 
In  my  house !  "  And  she  laughed  to  herself  and  showed 
her  teeth  again.  Then  she  muttered  to  herself :  "  But  for 
how  long !  Oh,  that  Raoul  was  here  to  advise  with ! " 

Late  that  night  St.  Georges  opened  his  eyes  and 
glanced  around  him,  wondering  where  he  was  and  en- 
deavouring to  recall  what  had  befallen  him.  Yet,  at 
first,  no  recollection  came ;  he  could  not  recall  any  of 
the  events  of  the  day — nothing.  All  was  a  blank.  He 
had  sufficient  sensibility,  however — a  sensibility  that 
momentarily  increased — to  be  able  to  notice  his  sur- 


THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS.  235 

roundings  and  to  observe  that  he  lay  in  a  large-capa- 
cious bed  in  a  commodious  room,  well  furnished  and 
hung  with  handsome  tapestry  representing  hunting 
scenes ;  also  that  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  by  a 
hugh  fireplace — now,  of  course,  empty — there  stood  a 
lamp  with,  by  it,  a  deep  chair  in  which  a  female  figure 
sat  sleeping — a  female  whose  dress  betokened  her  a 
waiting  maid. 

"  Where  am  I?  "  he  asked  feebly,  trying  to  send  his 
voice  to  where  she  sat.  "  And  why  am  I  here  ?  " 

The  woman  arose  and  came  toward  the  bed  and  stood 
beside  him ;  then  she  said : 

"  You  were  found  lying  in  the  road  outside  the 
town." 

"What  town?" 

"  Eambouillet." 

"  Ah ! — I  remember.     Yes." 

"  By  my  mistress,  La  Baronne  de  Louvigny.  She  had 
you  brought  here." 

"  She  is  very  merciful  to  me,  a  stranger.  A  Christian 
woman." 

To  this  the  waiting  maid  made  no  reply;  in  her 
own  heart  she  had  no  belief  in  her  mistress's  mercy  or 
Christianity — she  had  served  her  a  long  while.  Then  she 
said: 

"  You  had  best  sleep  now.  You  are  bruised  and  cut 
about  the  head.  But  the  doctor  has  bled  you,  and  says 
you  will  soon  be  well.  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  To — I  do  not  know.     I  cannot  remember." 

"  Sleep  now,"  the  woman  said,  "  sleep.  It  is  best 
for  you,"  and  she  left  the  bedside  and  went  back  to  the 
chair  she  had  been  sitting  in  .when  he  called  to  her. 

The  comfort  of  the  bed  combined  with  the  feeling  of 
weakness  that  was  upon  him  made  it  not  difficult  to 


236  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

obey  her  behest ;  yet  ere  he  did  so  he  had  sufficient  of 
his  senses  left  to  him — or  returned  to  him — to  raise  his 
hand  and  discover  by  doing  so  that  his  clothes  were  not 
removed ;  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  brand  upon  his 
shoulder  had  not  yet  been  observed.  Being  so  satisfied, 
he  let  himself  subside  into  a  sleep  once  more. 

Meanwhile,  in  a  room  near  where  he  lay,  La  Baronne 
de  Louvigny,  sometimes  seated  in  a  deep  fauteuil,  some- 
times pacing  the  apartment  which  formed  her  boudoir 
or  dressing  room,  was  meditating  deeply  upon  the  chances 
which  had  thrown  this  man  into  her  hands. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  she  had 
done  once  before  while  her  caleche  had  borne  her  back 
into  the  town  of  Rambouillet,  "  if  Raoul  were  but  here ! 
What  shall  I  do  with  him  ?  What !  What !  After  that 
horrible  night  when  the  prefect  examined  us  at  Ver- 
sailles, pronounced  that  I  was  an  attempted  murderess 
— Heaven !  if  Louvois  had  not  stood  our  friend  with 
Louis,  what  would  have  been  the  consequence ! — llaoul 
told  me  all :  That  this  man  was  in  truth  the  Due  de 
Vannes ;  that,  if  he  once  knew  it,  or  Louis  guessed  it,  it 
meant  ruin ;  that  all  his  father's  vast  estates  would  go 
to  him  instead  of  to  Kaoul,  who  had  long  felt  secure  of 
them ;  that,  worse  than  all,  Louis  would  never  pardon 
the  attack  upon  his  friend's  son,  would  know  that  he  had 
been  struck  down  from  behind  by  a  foul  blow,  not  fairly 
in  a  duel.  And  now  he  is  here,  alive  in  my  house — has 
crossed  our  path  again ;  is  doubtless  on  his  way  to  the 
king  to  tell  him  the  truth,  prove  his  false  condemna- 
tion to  the  galleys,  claim  all  that  is  his.  God  !  if  ho 
does  that  I  shall  never  be  Raoul's  wife — never,  never, 
never ! " 

Aa  she  had  once  drunk  feverishly  of  the  wine  stand- 
ing on  the  inn  table,  while  it  seemed  that  to  the  man 


THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS.  237 

who  ought,  even  then,  to  have  been  her  husband  his 
doom  was  approaching  from  St.  Georges's  avenging 
sword,  so  she  now  went  to  a  cabinet  and  took  from  it 
a  flask  of  strong  waters  and  swallowed  a  dram.  The 
habit  had  grown  on  her  of  late,  had  often  been  resorted 
to  since  the  night  when  she — hitherto  a  woman  with  no 
worse  failings  than  that  of  lightness  of  manner  and 
with,  for  her  greatest  weakness,  a  mad,  infatuated  pas- 
sion for  Raoul  de  Roquemaure — had  struck  her  knife 
deep  between  his  shoulders,  and  had  become  a  murder- 
ess in  heart  and  almost  one  in  actual  fact. 

Then,  having  swallowed  the  liquor,  she  mused  again. 

"  What  best  to  do  ?  I  can  not  slay  him  here  in  my 
own  house — though  I  would  do  so  if  I  could  compass  it. 
He  called  me  '  wanton ' ;  read  me  aright !  For  that 
alone  I  would  do  it!  Yet,  how?  How?  And  if  he 
goes  free  from  here  'tis  not  a  dozen  leagues  to  Louis ; 
doubtless  he  knows  now  his  history,  he  will  see  him — 
Louvois  is  dead  and  gone  to  his  master,  the  devil — he  is 
a  free  man." 

Yet  as  she  said  the  words  "  a  free  man  "  she  started, 
almost  gasped. 

"A  free  man  ! "  she  repeated.  "  A  free  man  !  Ha ! 
is  he  free  ?  " 

Through  her  brain  there  ran  a  multitude  of  fresh 
thoughts,  of  recollections.  "  A  free  man ! "  Yet  he  had 
been  condemned,  she  knew,  to  the  galleys  en  perpetuite; 
there  was  no  freedom,  never  any  pardon  for  those  so 
sentenced.  Once  condemned,  always  condemned  ;  no 
appeal  possible,  their  rights  gone  forever,  slaves  till 
their  day  of  death ;  branded,  marked,  so  that  forever 
they  bore  that  about  them  which  sent  them  back  to 
slavery.  If  he  bore  that  upon  him,  he  was  lost ;  the  gal- 
leys still  yawned  for  him — yawned  for  him  so  long  as 


238  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

Louis  did  not  know  that  the  escaped  galerien  was  the 
son  of  his  friend  of  early  days. 

"  I  know  it  all,  see  it  all,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 
"  The  galley  was  lost,  but  he  was  saved — saved  to  come 
back  to  France  and  ruin  us.  Yet  he  bears  that  about 
him — must  bear  it,  since  all  condemned  enperpetuite  are 
branded — which,  once  seen,  will  send  him  back  to  his 
doom.  Let  but  the  prefet  see  that,  or  any  officer  of  the 
garrison  or  citadel,  and  the  next  day  he  will  travel  again 
the  road  which  he  has  come;  go  back  to  Dunkirk  or 
Havre,  back  to  the  chiourme  and  the  oar.  They  will 
listen  to  nothing,  hear  no  word  or  protest,  grant  no 
trial.  He  is  mine — mine  ! "  and  again  she  went  to  the 
cabinet  and  drank.  "  Even  though  he  has  found  proof 
of  who  he  is,  they  will  not  listen  to  nor  believe  him." 

One  fear  only  disturbed  her  frenzy  now.  That  he 
was  the  man  who  had  called  her  "  wanton,"  the  man 
•who  stood  between  her  lover  and  his  wealth,  and  conse- 
quently between  her  and  that  lover,  she  never  doubted. 
Those  features,  seen  first  by  the  lamp  in  the  parlour  of 
the  inn — seen,  too,  when  apparently  he  lay  dying  from 
her  murderous  stab — were  too  deeply  stamped  into  her 
memory  to  ever  be  forgotten.  And  as  he  lay  there, 
looking  like  death,  so  he  had  looked  as  he  lay  in  the 
dust  outside  Rambouillet.  He  was  the  man  ! — and  this 
was  her  fear !  But  was  it  certain  that  the  galley  mark 
was  branded  into  him,  the  mark  which  proclaimed  him 
as  one  doomed  to  those  galleys  forever,  that  would  send 
him  back  without  appeal,  and  would  make  all  in  au- 
thority whom  he  might  endeavour  to  address  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  him  ? 

She  must  know  that,  and  at  once.  She  could  not 
rest  until  she  knew  that  upon  his  shoulder  was  the 
damning  evidence. 


THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS.    -  239 

All  was  quiet  in  the  house,  it  was  near  midnight,  the 
domestics  were  in  their  beds  by  now :  she  resolved  that 
she  would  satisfy  herself  at  once.  Then,  if  the  brand 
was  there,  as  it  must  be,  she  could  arrange  her  next 
steps — could  send  for  the  commandant  of  the  chateau, 
deliver  the  man  into  his  hands,  be  not  even  seen  by  him. 
If  it  was  there  ! 

Leaving  her  room,  she  crept  to  the  one  to  which  he 
had  been  carried,  and,  pushing  open  the  door,  looked  in. 
The  waiting  maid,  who  had  received  orders  not  to  quit 
him  under  any  pretext,  was  sleeping  heavily  in  her 
chair ;  on  the  bed  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  lay 
the  man. 

Then  swiftly  and  without  noise  she  advanced  toward 
him,  carrying  the  taper  which  had  been  burning  by  the 
watcher's  side  in  her  hand,  and  gazed  down  upon  him. 

He  was  sleeping  quietly,  his  coat  and  waistcoat  off — 
for  they  had  removed  these  in  consequence  of  the 
warmth  of  the  day,  though  nothing  else  except  his  shoes 
— his  shirt  was  open  at  the  neck.  If  she  could  turn  it 
back  an  inch  or  two  without  awaking  him,  her  question 
would  be  answered. 

Shading  the  lamp  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  she 
touched  the  collar  of  his  discoloured  shirt,  her  white 
jewelled  fingers  looking  like  snowflakes  against  it  and 
his  bronzed  skin ;  lower  she  pressed  the  folds  back  until, 
revealed  before  her,  was  the  mark  burned  deep  into  his 
neck,  the  fatal  iris  with,  above  it,  the  letter  G. 

"So,"  she  said,  "the  way  is  clear  before  me;"  and 
softly,  still  obscuring  the  light  with  her  hand,  she  stole 
from  the  room  quietly  as  she  had  come. 


240  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

FAREWELL   HOPE  ! 

"  MADAME,"  the  waiting  maid  said  to  her  the  next 
afternoon,  "  the  gentleman  is  desirous  of  setting  forth 
upon  his  journey  again.  He  is  well  now,  he  says,  and  he 
has  far  to  ride." 

"  Well,"  said  la  baronne,  glancing  up  from  the 
lounge  on  which  she  lay  in  her  salon  and  speaking  in 
her  usual  cold  tones,  "  he  may  go.  "What  is  there  to  de- 
tain him  ?  The  surgeon  says  he  is  fit  to  travel,  does  he 
not  ?  His  was  but  a  fit  from  long  riding  in  the  sun." 

u  Yes,  my  lady — but " 

"But  what?" 

"  My  lady,  he  is  a  gentleman — none  can  doubt  that. 
He — he  is  desirous  to  speak  with  you — to " 

"  To  speak  with  me  ?  "  and  from  her  dark  eyes  there 
shot  a  gleam  that  the  woman  before  her  did  not  under- 
stand. Nor  did  she  understand  why  her  ladyship's 
colour  left  her  face  so  suddenly.  "  To  speak  with  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lady.  To,  he  says,  thank  you  for  your 
charity  to  him  a  stranger — for  your  hospitality." 

"My  hospitality!"  and  she  drew  a  long  breath. 
Then,  and  it  seemed  to  the  waiting  maid  as  if  her  mis- 
tress had  grown  suddenly  hoarse,  "  He  said  that?" 

"  He  said  so,  madame.  He  begged  you  would  not 
refuse  to  let  him  make  the  only  return  that  lay  in  his 
power." 

"  I  will  not  see  him." 

"  Madame ! " 

"  I  will  not  see  him — go — tell  him  so.  No !  Yet, 
stay,  on  further  consideration  I  will.  Go.  Bring  him." 


FAREWELL  HOPE!  241 

Left  alone,  she  threw  herself  back  once  more  on  the 
cushions  of  her  lounge,  muttering  to  herself :  "  After 
all,"  she  said,  "  it  is  best.  He  never  saw  my  face  on 
that  night — the  mask  did  not  fall  from  it  until  his  back 
was  turned — I  remember  it  all  well — Raoul's  cry  for 
help — this  one's  determination — my  blow.  Ah,  the 
blow !  It  should  never  have  been  struck — yet — yet — 
otherwise  he  had  slain  Raoul.  And,"  she  continued 
rapidly,  for  she  knew  that  the  man  would  be  here  in  a 
moment,  "and  I  may  find  out  if  he  knows  who  and 
what  he  is.  If  he  guesses  also  the  fate  in  store  for  him." 

Rapidly  she  went  to  a  cabinet  in  this  great  salon, 
took  out  from  it  a  little  dagger,  and  dropped  it  in  the 
folds  of  her  dress,  muttering :  "  It  may  be  needed  again. 
He  may  recognise  me  even  after  so-  long  and  in  such 
different  surroundings,"  and  then  turned  and  faced  the 
door  at  which  a  knocking  was  now  heard.  A  moment 
later  St.  Georges  was  in  the  room. 

Pale  from  the  loss  of  blood  he  had  sustained  both 
from  his  fall  and  at  the  surgeon's  hands,  and  looking 
much  worn  by  all  he  had  suffered  of  late — to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  two  years  of  slavery  he  had  undergone — he 
still  presented  a  figure  that,  to  an  ordinary  woman, 
would  have  been  interesting  and  have  earned  her  sym- 
pathy. His  long  hair  was  now  brushed  carefully  and 
fell  in  graceful  folds  behind  ;  his  face,  if  worn  and  sad, 
was  as  handsome  as  it  had  ever  been.  Even  his  travel- 
stained  garments,  now  carefully  cleaned  and  brushed, 
were  not  unbecoming  to  him.  And  she,  regarding  him 
fixedly,  felt  at  last  a  spark  of  compunction  rise  in  her 
bosom  for  all  that  she  had  done  against  him.  Yet  it 
must  be  stifled,  she  knew.  That  very  morning's  work — 
a  letter  to  the  commandant  at  the  castle — had  been 
sufficient  to  make  all  regret  unavailing  now. 


242  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  bending  low  before  her  with  the 
courtesy  of  the  period,  "  I  could  not  leave  your  house 
without  desiring  first  to  thank  you  for  the  protection 
you  have  afforded  me.  And,  poor  and  unknown  as  I 
am,  I  yet  beseech  you  to  believe  that  my  gratitude  is 
very  great.  You  succoured  me  in  my  hour  of  need,  ma- 
dame  ;  for  that  succour  let  me  thank  you."  And  stoop- 
ing his  knee  he  courteously  endeavoured  to  take  her 
hand. 

But — none  are  all  evil — even  Nathalie  de  Louvigny 
would  not  suffer  that.  Drawing  back  from  him,  she  ex- 
claimed instead :  "  Sir,  you  have  nothing  to  thank  me 
for.  I — I — what  I  did  I  should  have  done  to  any  whom 
I  had  found  as  you  were." 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her.  A  chord  or 
tone  in  her  voice  seemed  to  recall  something  in  the  past, 
and  she  standing  there  divined  that  such  was  the  case. 
Then  he  said,  quietly  : 

"  Madame,  I  can  well  believe  it.  Charity  does  not 
discriminate  in  its  objects.  Yet,  since  I  so  happened  to 
be  that  object,  I  must  thank  you.  Madame,  it  is  not 
probable  that  I  shall  ever  visit  Rambouillet  again,  nor, 
indeed,  France  after  a  little  while  ;  let  an " 

"  Not  visit  France  again ! "  she  exclaimed,  staring 
open-eyed  at  him.  "Are  you  not  a  Frenchman?" 

"  Madame,  I  was  a  Frenchman.  I  am  so  no  longer. 
I  have  parted  with  France  forever.  In  another  week, 
or  as  soon  after  that  as  possible,  I  intend  to  quit  France 
and  never  to  return  to  it." 

She  took  a  step  back  from  him,  amazed — terrified. 
"What  had  she  done !  This  man  had  renounced  France 
forever — would  have  crossed  her  and  Ruoul's  path  no 
more — have  resigned  all  claim  to  all  that  was  his.  And 
she  had  taken  a  step  that  would  lead  to  his  being  de- 


FAREWELL  HOPE!  243 

tained  in  France — that  might,  though  his  chance  was 
remote,  lead  to  his  true  position  being  known.  Yet, 
was  it  too  late  to  undo  that  which  she  had  done? 
Was  it? 

She  had  bidden  the  officer  in  command  at  the  cTid- 
teau,  who  aspired  to  her  regard,  send  to  her  house  that 
night  and  arrest  a  man  who,  she  had  every  reason  to 
believe,  had  escaped  from  the  galleys.  Also  she  had 
warned  him  to  let  no  man  pass  the  gate  without  com- 
plete explanation  as  to  who  and  what  he  was ;  and  he 
had  sent  back  word  thanking  her,  and  saying  that,  pro- 
vided the  person  of  whom  she  spoke  did  not  endeavour 
to  leave  Rambouillet  before  sunset,  he  would  have  him 
arrested  at  her  house.  She  had  done  this  in  early  morn- 
ing ;  now  the  sunset  was  at  hand.  Ere  long  the  soldiers 
would  be  here,  and  he  would  be  detained — would  speak 
— might  be  listened  to.  She  had  set  the  trap,  and  she 
herself  was  snared  in  it. 

Yet,  she  remembered,  she  wanted  one  other  thing — 
revenge  for  the  opprobrious  word  he  had  applied  to  her 
long  ago.  If  he  quitted  France  she  must  forego  that. 
But  need  she  forego  it  ?  He  had  spoken  of  himself  in 
lowly  terms — was  it  possible  he  still  did  not  know  who 
he  was,  as  De  Roquemaure  had  told  her  long  ago  he  did 
not  know  then  ?  The  revenge  might  still  be  hers  if  he 
knew  nothing.  She  must  find  that  out  if  she  could. 

"  Monsieur  must  have  very  little  in  France  that  he 
deems  of  worth,"  she  said,  "  since  he  is  so  desirous  of 
quitting  it.  There  are  few  of  our  countrymen  who 
willingly  exchange  the  land  of  their  birth  for  another." 

She  had  seated  herself  as  she  spoke  before  a  table  on 
which  stood  a  tall,  thin  vase  filled  with  roses ;  and  she 
caught  now  in  her  hands  the  folds  of  the  tablecloth, 
while  he  standing  there  before  her  saw  these  signs  of 


244  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

emotion.  Also  he  observed  that  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
an  unnatural  light,  and  that  her  upper  lip,  owing  to 
some  nervous  contraction,  was  drawn  back  a  little,  so 
that  her  small  white  teeth  were  very  visible.  And  as 
he  so  observed  her  and  noticed  these  things,  the  cer- 
tainty came  to  him  that  they  had  met  before.  But 
where?  He  could  not  remember  at  first — could  not  re- 
call where  he  had  seen  a  woman  seated  at  a  table  as  she 
was  now  seated,  clutching  the  folds  of  the  cloth  in  her 
hands. 

"  My  countrymen,"  he  said,  still  vainly  wondering, 
"  have  not  often  suffered  as  I  have  suffered — have  not 
such  reasons,  perhaps,  for  quitting  their  native  land 
forever." 

"  What  reasons?"  and  as  she  spoke  her  nervousness 
was  such  that  she  released  the  folds  of  the  cloth  which 
her  left  hand  grasped,  and  with  that  hand  toyed  with 
the  slim  vase  before  her  which  contained  the  roses. 

And  this  further  action  stirred  his  memory  still 
more.  When  had  he  seen  a  woman  seated  thus,  her 
hand  trifling  first  with  a  table  cover,  then  with  some 
object  on  the  table  itself  ?  When  ? 

"Reasons  so  deep,  so  profound,"  he  said,  "that 
scarce  any  who  knew  of  them  would  be  surprised  at  my 
resolve :  a  career  cruelly  blighted  for  no  fault  of  my 
own  ;  my  life  attempted  secretly,  murderously ;  my  little 
child  doomed  to  assassination;  the  wrongdoer  in  my 
power,  a  treacherous  stab  from  behind — "  He  paused 
amazed. 

The  woman's  right  hand — the  left  now  gathering  up 
the  folds  of  the  cloth  again  in  its  small  palm — had 
dropped  to  the  side  of  her  dress,  was  thrust  into  a  pocket 
in  that  side,  was  feeling  for,  perhaps  grasping,  something 
within  that  pocket.  That  action  aided  remembrance 


FAREWELL  HOPE!  245 

and  cleared  away  all  wonder.  Swift  as  the  lightning 
flashes,  there  flashed  to  his  recollection  the  woman  who 
had  sat  at  the  table  of  the  inn — the  woman  whom,  as  he 
and  De  Roquemaure  had  once  changed  places  as  they 
fought,  he  had  seen  seize  the  flask  of  wine  with  her  left 
hand,  her  right  grasping  her  small  dagger.  And  this 
was  the  woman  !  The  drawn-back  lip,  the  glassy  stare 
with  which  she  regarded  him  in  the  swift-coming  dark- 
ness of  the  summer  evening,  all  reproduced  the  scene  of 
that  night — a  scene  which,  until  now,  he  had  almost 
forgotten  amid  the  crowd  of  other  events  that  had 
taken  place  since  then.  Advancing  a  step  nearer  to 
her,  so  that  he  stood  towering  above,  he  said,  his  voice 
deep  and  solemn : 

"  It  is  strange,  madame,  how  we  stand  face  to  face 
once  more — alone  together.  Is  it  not?  It  was  your 
hand  dealt  that  stab !  " 

She  could  not  answer  him,  could  only  regard  him 
fixedly,  her  eyes  glaring  as  they  had  glared  four  years 
ago,  and  as  they  had  glared  not  four  minutes  since. 
Only  now  it  was  with  the  wild  stare  of  fear  added  to 
hate  and  fury,  and  not  with  hate  and  fury  alone ;  also 
she  kept  still  her  right  hand  in  the  fold  of  her  dress. 

"  When  last  we  met,  madame,"  St.  Georges  con- 
tinued, his  voice  low  and  solemn  as  before,  "  you  inter- 
fered between  me  and  my  vengeance  on  one  who  had 
deeply  wronged  me.  You  had  the  power  to  do  so,  bore 
about  you  a  concealed  weapon,  and — used  it !  Have  you 
one  now?"  and  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  where  her 
hand  was. 

Still  she  maintained  silence — trembling  all  over  and 
affrighted;  even  the  arm  hanging  down  by  her  side 
with  the  hand  in  the  pocket  was  trembling  too. 

"  Well,"  St.  Georges  said,  "  it  matters  not !    I  shall 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

not  give  you  a  second  opportunity — shall  not  turn  my 
back  on  you." 

Then  she  spoke,  roused  by  the  contempt  of  those 
last  words. 

"  I  would  not  have  struck  at  you,"  she  said,  "  even 
though  I  loved  De  Roquemaure — am  his  affianced  wife 
when  he  returns  from  England " 

"  When — he — returns — from  England ! "  St.  Georges 
repeated,  astonished. 

"Yes.  His  affianced  wife."  In  her  tremor  she 
thought  his  disbelief  of  this  was  the  cause  of  his  aston- 
ishment, never  dreaming  of  how  he  had  last  left  her 
lover.  "  Not  even  for  that  love.  But  you  had  abused, 
insulted  me,  called  me  wanton,  suggested  it  was  I  who 
stole  your  child.  And  you  were  very  masterful,  ordered 
us  to  follow  you  into  the  inn,  carried  all  before  you, 
treated  him  like  a  dog,  would  have  slain  him " 

"  I  have  since  learned  I  wronged  you,  at  least ;  that 
it  was  another — woman — who  stole  my  child.  But 
enough.  We  have  met  again,  madame,  and — and — I 
must " 

"  What ! "  she  gasped,  thinking  he  was  about  to  slay 
her.  "  What  will  you  do  to  me  ?  " 

"  Do ! "  he  replied.    "  Do !    What  should  I  do  ?  " 

"God  knows!  Yet  in  mercy  spare  me!  I  am  a 
woman,"  and  overcome  with  fear  she  cast  herself  at  his 
feet.  "  Spare  me — spare  me." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  St.  Georges  said,  look- 
ing down  disdainfully  at  her.  "  I  think,  too,  you  do 
not  understand  me.  I  wish  to  do  only  one  thing  now, 
to  quit  your  presence  and  never  set  eyes  on  you  again," 
and  without  offering  to  assist  her  to  her  feet  he  backed 
toward  the  door. 

But  now — perhaps,  because  of  the   discovery  that 


FAREWELL  HOPE!  247 

this  man  meant  her  no  harm,  intended  to  exact  no  hor- 
rible atonement  from  her — a  revulsion  of  feeling  took 
place  in  the  woman's  breast. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet.  "No, 
no !  Do  not  go — for  God's  sake  do  not  attempt  to  quit 
the  town  yet !  You  will  be  lost — if  you  are  seen — lost, 
lost!  Ah,  heavens!"  she  screamed,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment there  boomed  a  cannon  from  the  chateau,  "  the 
sunset  gun  !  The  sunset  gun  !  It  is  too  late  ! " 

"  What  is  too  late  ? "  he  asked  advancing  toward 
her.  "  What  ?  "  And  as  he  spoke  he  seized  her  wrist. 
"  Woman,  what  do  you  mean?  Is  this  some  fresh  plot, 
some  new  treachery  ?  Answer  me.  Am  I  trapped — and 
by  you?" 

"  No,  no ! "  she  wailed,  afraid  to  tell  what  she  had 
done,  afraid  that  even  now,  ere  the  soldiers  should  come, 
he  would  strangle  the  life  out  of  her,  or  thrust  the 
sword  he  carried  by  his  side  through  her  heart.  "  No, 
no !  But  it  is  known — they  know — that  you  have  been 
a  yalerien—yo\L  will  be  arrested !  The  mark  upon  your 
shoulder  is  known  to  the  commandant." 

"  How  ? "  he  said,  again  seizing  her  by  the  arm. 
"How?  Who  knows  it?  Who?  Outside  this  house 
none  can  have  seen  it." 

"  Come ! "  she  replied,  not  daring  to  answer  him  ; 
"  come,  hide.  They  will  look  for  you  here.  Yet  I  can 
secrete  you  till  the  search  is  over.  For  a  week — months 
— if  need  be.  Come." 

"  They  know  I  am  here !    Through  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  The  mark  was  seen  when  you  lay  insen- 
sible— ah  ! "  she  screamed  again.  "  See,  see !  it  is  too 
late !  They  are  in  the  garden.  It  is  too  late  ! " 

It  was  true.  Along  the  garden  path  to  which  the 
windows  of  her  salon  opened,  six  soldiers  were  advanc- 


248  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

ing  led  by  a  young  officer.  Across  their  shoulders  were 
slung  their  muskets;  the  officer  carried  his  drawn 
sword.  And  St.  Georges  looking  from  her  to  them 
knew  that  he  was  snared,  his  freedom  gone.  Doubtless 
his  life,  too. 

"  Devil,"  he  said  to  the  woman  as  she  reeled  back  to 
the  lounge  and  fell  heavily  on  it — "  devil,  I  thanked  you 
too  soon.  Had  I  known,  dreamed  of  this,  I  would  have 
slain  you  as  you  dreaded  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"IT  IS  TRUE." 

THE  windows  of  the  salon  giving  on  to  the  crushed- 
shell  path  of  the  Hotel  de  Louvigny  had  been  open  all 
day  to  let  in  the  air,  and  the  handsomely  apparelled 
young  officer  of  the  Regiment  de  Grance,  stationed  at 
Rambouillet,  was  enabled  therefore  to  at  once  enter  the 
room,  leaving  his  men  outside.  Yet  as  he  did  so  he 
seemed  bewildered  and  astonished  at  the  sight  which 
met  his  eyes. 

Lying  fainting,  gasping,  on  her  couch  was  Madame 
de  Louvigny — la  belle  Louvigny  as  they  called  her,  and 
toasted  her  nightly  in  the  guardroom — standing  over 
her  was  a  man,  white  to  the  lips,  his  hands  clinched, 
his  whole  form  and  face  expressing  horror  and  con- 
tempt. 

"  Pardie  I "  the  young  fellow  muttered  between  his 
lips,  "  I  have  interrupted  a  little  scene,  un  roman 
<T  amour!  Bon  Dieu  the  lover  has  detected  madame 
in  some  little  infidelity,  and — and — has  had  a  moment 


"IT  IS  TRUE."  249 

of  vivacity.  Yet  'tis  not  my  fault.  Devoir  avant  tout" 
aud  as  he  muttered  the  motto  of  the  noble  house  to 
which  he  belonged — perhaps  as  an  aid  in  that  devoir — 
he  advanced  into  the  room  after  bidding  his  men  remain 
where  he  had  stationed  them. 

"  Madame  la  baronne  will  pardon  my  untimely  ap- 
pearance," he  muttered  in  the  most  courtly  manner,  and 
with  a  comprehensive  bow  of  much  ease  and  grace  which 
included  St.  Georges,  "but  my  orders  were — what — 
madame  herself  knows.  Otherwise  I  should  regret  even 
more  my  presence  here." 

She,  still  on  the  lounge,  her  face  buried  in  her  Va- 
lenciennes handkerchief,  was  as  yet  unable  to  utter  a 
word — he,  standing  before  her,  never  removed  his  eyes 
from  her.  The  officer's  words  had  confirmed  what  he 
suspected — what  he  knew. 

"  But,"  continued  the  lieutenant,  "  madame  will  ex- 
cuse. I  have  my  orders  to  obey.  The  man  she  men- 
tioned to  the  commandant  has  not  yet  endeavoured  to 
pass  the  barrier — is  it  madame's  desire  that  her  house 
should  be  searched  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  couch  as  he  spoke,  not 
daring  to  cast  a  glance  at  him  whom  she  had  betrayed 
to  his  doom.  Then  she  said,  her  voice  under  no  con- 
trol and  broken.  "No.  He  is  not  here.  He — has 
escaped." 

"Escaped,  madame?  Impossible!  Rambouillet  is 
too  small  even  for  him  to  be  in  hiding — he " 

"  Has  not  escaped,"  St.  Georges  said,  turning  sud- 
denly on  the  officer.  "  On  the  contrary,  he  has  been 
betrayed.  I  am  the  man." 

"  You  !     Madame's "  and  he  left  his  sentence 

unfinished.  "  You !  Here  alone  with  her,  and  a  ga- 
lerien  I " 

17 


250  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

«  Yes— I." 

It  was  useless,  he  knew,  to  do  aught  than  give  him- 
self up.  Escape  was  impossible.  It  was  known,  must 
be  known  in  this  small  town,  that  he  was  the  only 
stranger  who  had  entered  it  lately ;  nor  did  he  doubt 
that  when  the  treacherous  creature  had  informed  against 
him  she  had  described  him  thoroughly.  Even  though 
now  she  lied  to  save  him,  it  would  be  of  no  avail,  lie 
could  not  remain  in  her  house,  hide  in  it  as  she  had 
suggested,  take  shelter  from  her.  From  her!  No! 
even  the  galleys — or  the  gallows — were  better  than  that. 

"  I  regret  to  hear  it,"  the  officer  said,  "  since  mon- 
sieur appears  to  be  a  friend  of  madame  la  baronne. 
Yet,  under  the  circumstances,  monsieur  will  not  refuse 
to  accompany  me." 

"  I  will  accompany  you." 

Whatever  the  young  fellow  may  have  thought  of  the 
man  who  was  now  in  his  custody — and  what  he  did 
think  was  that  he  was  some  old  lover  of  la  belle 
Louvigny  who  had  either  cast  her  off,  or  been  cast  off 
by  her,  and  had  reappeared  at  an  awkward  moment,  so 
that  she  had  taken  an  effectual  manner  of  disposing  of 
him — he  at  least  did  not  show  it.  But  for  her  he  testi- 
fied his  contempt  in  a  manner  that  was  unmistakable. 
He  motioned  to  St.  Georges  to  precede  him  to  the  open 
window  where  his  men  were,  and,  putting  on  his  hat 
before  he  had  quitted  the  room,  he  strode  after  his 
prisoner  without  casting  a  glance  at  the  woman. 

But  as  they  neared  the  window,  and  were  about  to 
step  on  to  the  path,  St.  Georges  stopped  and,  addressing 
him,  said  :  "  Sir,  grant  me  one  moment's  further  grace, 
I  beg  of  you.  Ere  I  go  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  ma- 
dame." 

Courteous  as  he  had  been  all  through — to  him — the 


"IT  IS  TRUE."  251 

young  fellow  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-naturedly, 
raised  no  objection,  and  lounged  by  the  open  window, 
while  St.  Georges  returned  to  where  she  still  crouched 
upon  the  lounge.  Yet,  as  she  heard  his  footsteps  near- 
ing  her,  she  looked  up  with  terrorstricken  eye,  and 
shrunk  back  even  further  into  its  ample  depths.  The 
officer  had  not  demanded  his  sword,  it  hung  still  by  his 
side ;  her  craven  heart  feared  that  in  his  last  moment 
allowed  to  him  he  might  wrench  it  from  its  sheath  and 
punish  her  for  her  treachery.  But,  as  she  learned  a  mo- 
ment later,  he  had  a  worse  punishment  in  store  for  her 
than  that. 

"  You  have  sent  me  to  my  doom,"  he  said,  gazing 
down  on  her,  "  yet,  ere  I  go,  hear  what  has  been  the 
doom  of  another — as  vile  as  you  yourself " 

In  an  instant  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  was  stand- 
ing panting  before  him,  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  the 
other  by  her  side  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.  "  Vile  as 
she  herself,"  he  had  said.  "  Vile  as  she  herself ! "  To 
whom  else  but  De  Roquemaure  could  such  words  apply 
when  issuing  from  that  man's  lips? 

"  The  doom  of  another ! "  she  hissed,  repeating  those 
words ;  "  the  doom  of  another — of  whom  ?  " 

And  again  on  her  face  there  was  now  the  look — the 
canine  look — that  had  been  there  before — the  lip  drawn 
back,  the  small  teeth  showing,  the  threatening  glance  in 
the  eyes. 

"  Of  whom  but  one !  Who  else  but  your  vile  part- 
ner " — the  young  officer,  of  noble  race  as  he  was,  and 
steeped  in  good  breeding,  could  scarce  refrain  from 
being  startled  at  those  words — "  the  man  you  say  you 
love  ?  Well,  love  him  !  Only  learn  this,  you  have  noth- 
ing but  his  memory  to  love.  He  is  dead  ! " 

With  a  scream  that  rang  not  only  through  the  salon, 


252  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

but  the  house  also,  and  penetrated  out  into  the  cool 
garden  beyond — a  scream  that  caused  the  lieutenant  to 
start  toward  them,  and  his  men  to  peer  into  the  room — 
she  sprang  at  him,  her  right  hand  raised  now,  and  in  it 
the  dagger  she  had  so  long  concealed. 

"  Beware ! "  the  officer  cried.  "  Beware,  she  is  dan- 
gerous ! "  And,  even  as  he  spoke,  she  struck  full  at  St. 
Georges's  breast  with  the  knife. 

"  Bah !  "  he  exclaimed,  thrusting  aside  her  upraised 
arm  with  the  hand  in  which,  all  through  the  interview 
with  her,  he  had  held  his  hat — thrusting  it  aside  with 
such  force  that  she  almost  staggered  and  fell.  "  Bah ! 
you  mistake,  woman.  Did  you  think  it  was  my  back 
again  at  which  you  struck  ?  " 

The  room  was  full  of  servants  now ;  her  own  waiting 
maid  and  one  or  two  of  the  lackeys  busy  about  the 
house,  preparing  a  little  supper  madame  had  intended 
giving  that  night  to  a  few  admirers,  had  rushed  in  at 
her  scream  ;  and  now  the  former  stood  behind  and  half 
supported  her  while  she  muttered  incoherent  sounds 
amid  which  the  words  only  could  be  caught, "  You  slew 
him !— at  last ! " 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  standing  still  in  front  of  her,  calm 
and  sinister ;  "  such  satisfaction  was  not  granted  me, 
nor  so  easy  an  ending  to  him.  The  English  who  drove 
Tourville's  fleet  to  its  doom  at  La  Hogue  did  their  work 
effectively.  Each  ship,  each  transport,  found  by  them 
was  blown  out  of  the  water ;  in  one  of  those  transports, 
named  the  Vendome,  he  was  blown  up,  too.  I  was 
there  but  a  little  while  before  it  exploded ;  I  saw  its 
fragments  and  all  within  it  hurled  into  space.  I  think, 
madame,  my  doom  is  scarce  worse  than  his." 

With  another  shriek,  as  piercing  as  the  first,  she 
threw  her  arms  above  her  head,  then  fell  an  insensible 


"IT  IS  TRUE."  253 

mass  into  the  serving  woman's  arms.     And  St.  Georges, 
turning  to  the  young  officer,  said : 
"  Sir,  I  am  at  your  service." 

They  took  him  that  night  to  the  Chateau  de  Kam- 
bouillet,  he  marching  with  three  of  the  soldiers  in  front 
of  and  three  behind  him,  the  young  officer  by  his  side. 
And  this  scion  of  nobility,  one  of  the  De  Mortemarts, 
testified  by  his  actions  that  night  that  the  French  good 
breeding  of  the  great  monarch's  day  was  no  mere  out- 
ward show.  He  permitted  his  prisoner  to  still  retain 
his  sword,  and  he  walked  by  his  side  instead  of  ahead 
of  his  men,  because  he  did  not  desire  that  those  whom, 
in  his  mind  he  considered  the  canaille  should  make  any 
observations  upon  that  prisoner  as  they  passed  through 
the  streets.  Moreover,  wherever  a  knot  of  persons  were 
gathered  together  in  any  corner  he  affected  a  smiling 
exterior,  so  that  they  should  be  induced  to  suppose  that 
St.  Georges  was  an  ordinary  acquaintance  accompanying 
him. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  latter,  observing  all  this,  "  you  are 
very  good  to  me.  You  make  what  I  have  to  bear  as 
light  as  possible." 

"  It  is  nothing,  nothing,"  the  lieutenant  replied.  "  I 
only  wisli  it  had  not  fallen  to  my  lot  to  undertake  so  un- 
pleasant a  duty.  By  the  way,  I  suppose  it  is  true,  as 
she  told  the  commandant!  You  have,  unfortunately 
known — been — at  the  galleys  ?  " 

"  It  is  true." 

"  Tiens  !  A  pity.  A  thousand  pities !  Above  all, 
that  you  should  have  encountered  that  she-devil.  Well, 
I  am  glad  you  had  those  hard  words  with  her.  Ma  foil 
she  is  a  tigress  !  I  only  hope  you  may  escape  from — 
from  other  things — as  you  did  from  her  dagger." 


254:  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

The  commandant — who  was  also  the  colonel  of  the 
Regiment  de  Grance — was,  however,  a  different  style  of 
man  from  his  lieutenant — a  man  who  from  long  service 
in  the  army  had  become  rough  and  harsh;  also,  like 
many  men  commanding  regiments  under  Louis,  he  had 
risen  solely  by  his  military  qualifications,  and  owed  noth- 
ing to  birth  or  influence. 

He  listened,  however,  very  attentively  to  all  De 
Mortemart  told  him  of  the  scene  that  had  taken  place, 
and  especially  as  to  how  the  Baronne  de  Louvigny — to 
whom  he  himself  was  paying  court,  as  has  been  told — 
had  evidently  had  some  lover  whose  existence  he  had 
never  suspected ;  and  then  he  sent  for  St.  Georges, 
who  was  brought  into  his  presence  by  De  Mortemart 
himself. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  are  an  escaped  galerien,  mon- 
sieur. Well !  You  know  what  happens  to  them  when 
retaken ! " 

"  I  know." 

"  What  was  your  crime?" 

"  Nothing — except  serving  the  king  as  a  soldier." 

"  As  a  soldier ! "  he  and  De  Mortemart  exclaimed 
together,  while  the  former  continued,  "  In  what  capaci- 
ty?" 

"As  lieutenant  in  the  Chevaux-Legers  of  Niver- 
nois." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  the  commandant.  "  A 
picked  regiment,  and  commanded  by  De  Beauvilliers — 
n'est-ce  pas  f  " 

"  He  was  my  colonel." 

"  Come,"  said  the  other,  relaxing  his  stern  method 
of  addressing  St.  Georges,  and  warming  toward  him,  un- 
knowingly to  himself  by  the  fact  that  this  man  in  such 
dire  distress  was  a  comrade  and  had  served  in  a  corps 


"IT  IS  TRUE."  255 

d1  elite — "  come,  tell  us  your  history.  We  cannot  help 
you — there  is  but  one  thing  to  do,  namely,  to  send  you 
to  Paris  for  inquiry ;  but  until  you  go  we  can  at  least 
make  your  existence  here  more  endurable." 

So  St.  Georges  told  them  his  story. 

All  through  it  both  his  listeners  testified  their  sym- 
pathy— De  Mortemart  especially,  by  many  exclamations 
against  De  Eoquemaure  and  his  sister,  and  also  against 
la  belle  Louvigny — while  the  colonel  spoke  approv- 
ingly of  the  manner  in  which  St.  Georges  had  almost 
avenged  himself  on  his  foe  in  the  inn.  The  descrip- 
tion, too,  of  his  existence  in  the  galleys  moved  both 
young  and  old  soldier  alike ;  it  was  only  when  he  ar- 
rived at  the  account  of  the  destruction  of  Tourville's 
fleet  that  they  ceased  to  make  any  remark  and  sat  lis- 
tening to  him  in  silence. 

It  was  finished,  however,  now,  and  when  the  colonel 
spoke  his  voice  was  more  cold  and  unsympathetic. 

"  You  have  ruined  yourself  by  the  last  month's 
work,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  you  can  never  recover 
from  that.  Did  you  not  know  that  his  Majesty  has 
made  it  a  rule  that  none  who  have  served  him  shall  ever 
take  service  under  a  foreign  power  and  dare  to  venture 
into  France  again  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  St.  Georges  said,  "  and  I  must  abide  by 
my  fate.  Yet,  my  child  was  here.  I  was  forced  to  come, 
and  there  was  no  other  way  but  this." 

One  thing  only  he  had  not  told  them,  the  story  of 
what  he  believed  to  be  his  birth,  the  belief  he  held  that 
he  was  the  Due  deVannes.  Nor,  he  determined  then — 
had,  indeed,  long  since  determined — would  he  ever  pub- 
lish that  belief  now.  Had  he  kept  his  freedom  until  he 
had  once  more  regained  Dorine,  it  was  his  intention  to 
have  repassed  to  England  and  never  again  to  have  re- 


256  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

called  that  supposed  birthright,  or,  as  the  child  grew  up, 
to  have  let  her  obtain  any  knowledge  on  the  subject. 
He  would  work  for  her,  slave  for  her,  if  necessary  be- 
come tutor,  or  soldier,  or  sailor,  as  Fate  might  decree ; 
but  it  must  be  as  an  Englishman,  and  with  all  con- 
nection with  France  broken  forever. 

And  now,  a  prisoner,  a  man  who  would  ere  long  be 
tried  as  an  ex-galerien,  as — if  De  Mortemart  and  the 
colonel  did  not  hold  their  peace — a  Frenchman  who  had 
joined  England  and  helped  her  in  administering  the 
most  crushing  blow  to  France  which  she  had  suffered 
for  centuries — he  would  never  see  his  child  again ;  what 
need,  therefore,  to  publish  his  belief  ? 

The  hope  that  had  sustained  him  for  years  was  gone ; 
the  prayer  he  had  uttered  by  night  and  day,  that  once 
more  he  might  hold  his  little  child  in  his  arms  and  cher- 
ish and  succour  her,  was  gone,  too ;  they  would  never 
meet  again.  Let  him  go,  therefore,  to  his  doom  un- 
known, and,  so  going,  pass  away  and  be  forgotten.  And 
it  might  be  that,  with  him  removed,  God  would  see  fit 
to  temper  to  his  child  the  adversity  that  had  fallen  to 
his  own  lot. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ST.   GEORGES'S   DOOM. 

THE  cours  criminel  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine  had 
been  crowded  all  day,  and  the  judges  seated  on  the 
bench  began  to  exhibit  signs  of  fatigue  at  their  labours. 
They  had  sat  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  far  into 
the  afternoon,  and,  now  that  four  o'clock  was  at  hand,  it 
appeared  as  if  their  sitting  would  be  still  further  pro- 


ST.  GEORGES'S  DOOM.  257 

longed ;  and  this  in  spite  of  the  number  of  cases  they 
had  disposed  of. 

A  variety  of  malefactors,  or  so-called  malefactors, 
had  on  that  day  received  their  sentences  :  some  for  pro- 
fessing the  "reformed  religion,"  as  they  blasphemously 
— in  the  judges'  eyes — termed  it ;  some  for  being  bullies 
and  cutthroats ;  a  student  aged  sixteen  had  been  sen- 
tenced to  imprisonment  in  the  Bastille  for  writing  on  the 
walls  a  distich  on  Louis,  stating  that  he  had  displaced 
God  in  the  minds  of  the  French ;  *  and  a  marchioness  had 
been  condemned  to  a  fine  of  twenty  pistoles  and  to  remain 
out  of  Paris  for  a  year  for  having  poisoned  her  husband ; 
also  a  spy,  a  Dutchman,  supposed  to  be  in  the  service  of 
the  accursed  Stadtholder  and  English  king,  had  been 
condemned  to  death  by  burning,  his  entrails  to  be  first 
cut  out  and  flung  in  his  face ;  and  several  petty  malefac- 
tors— a  drunken  priest  who  had  read  a  portion  of  Rabe- 
lais to  his  flock  instead  of  a  sermon ;  a  lampoonist  who 
had  written  a  joke  on  the  De  Maintenon ;  an  actor  who 
had  struck  a  gentleman  in  defence  of  his  own  daughter ; 
and  a  courtesan  who  had  induced  a  young  nobleman  to 
spend  too  much  money  on  her — were  all  sentenced  to  the 
Bastille,  to  Vincennes,  and  Bicetre  for  various  periods. 

"  Now,"  said  Monsieur  de  Rennie,  who  presided  to- 
day, when  the  last  of  these  wretches  had  been  finished 
off — "  now,  is  the  list  cleared  ?  We  have  sat  six  hours." 
And  the  other  judges,  one  on  either  side  of  him,  re- 
peated his  words  and  murmured,  "  Six  hours  ! " 


*  The  distich  ran : 

"  La  croix  fait  place  au  lis,  et  Jesus  Christ  au  Roi 
Louis,  oh  I  race  irapie,  est  le  seul  Dieu  chez  toi." 

For  writing  it  the  student  remained  in  prison  thirty-one  years. 


258  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"Your  lordships  have  still  some  other  cases,"  the 
procureur  du  roi  said,  addressing  them,  "  which  you 
will  probably  be  willing  to  dispose  of  to-day.  There  is 
one  of  a  man  who  is  thought  to  have  abandoned  his  ship 
in  the  recent  disaster  at  La  Hogue,  and  to  have  escaped 
to  Paris,  where  he  was  captured  in  hiding;  and  an- 
other of  three  Jausenists  who  have  blasphemed  the 
faith ;  also  there  is  a  man,  an  escaped  galerien,  brought 
hither  from  Kambouillet  by  an  officer  of  the  Regiment 
de  Grance  for  trial." 

"Are  the  facts  clear,"  asked  the  presiding  judge, 
"  against  this  man  ?  If  so,  the  case  will  not  occupy  us 
long,  and  we  will  take  it  to-night." 

"  Quite  clear,"  the  procureur  replied,  "  so  far  as  I 
gather." 

"  Bring  him  in." 

A  moment  later  St.  Georges  stood  in  the  dock  set 
apart  for  the  criminals,  his  hands  tied  in  front  of  him. 
And  in  the  court  many  eyes  were  cast  toward  him  as  he 
took  his  stand.  All  knew  that,  for  those  who  success- 
fully escaped  the  galleys,  there  was  but  one  ending  if 
ever  caught  again. 

"Who  gives  evidence  against  this  prisoner?"  De 
Rennie  asked,  looking  at  St.  Georges  under  his  bushy 
white  eyebrows.  "And  what  is  his  name?  —  Pris- 
oner, what  is  your  name?  Answer  truly  to  the 
court." 

"  I  have  no  name,"  St.  Georges  replied ;  "  I  refuse  to 
answer  to  any." 

The  judge's  eyebrows  were  lifted  into  his  forehead 
and  down  again  ;  then  he  observed  to  his  brother  judge 
on  his  right,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  "  Contuma- 
cious ! "  and  then,  because  he  was  a  man  who  disliked 
to  be  thwarted,  he  exclaimed :  "  So  much  the  worse  for 


ST.  GEORGES'S  DOOM.  259 

you.  Well,  M.  le  procureur,  who  prosecutes — who  is 
there  as  witness  ?  " 

"  The  officer  who  arrested  him  and  afterward  brought 
him  to  Paris.  He  can  give  your  lordships  the  facts." 

"Very  well.  Why  does  he  not  do  so?  Let  him 
stand  forward." 

The  officer  stood  forward,  in  so  far  that  he  stood  up 
in  the  well  of  the  crowd — his  gold-laced,  cockaded  hat 
still  upon  his  head,  since  as  an  officer  of  the  king  he 
was  entitled  to  wear  it  in  all  other  places  but  church — 
and  briefly  he  answered  the  presiding  judge's  questions. 
Yes,  he  was  a  lieutenant  of  the  Regiment  de  Grance, 
quartered  at  Rambouillet — in  his  opinion,  a  miserable 
hole.  His  opinion  on  Rambouillet,  the  judge  said, 
frowning,  was  not  required ;  he  would  be  good  enough 
to  give  his  name.  His  name  was  De  Mortemart.  De 
Mortemart !  Perhaps,  said  the  judge,  he  might  be  a 
relative  of  the  Due  de  Mortemart?  Yes,  the  officer  re- 
plied, he  might  be ;  in  effect  he  was  a  son  of  that  per- 
sonage. The  judge  was  pleased  to  hear  it ;  the  duke 
was  universally  known  and  respected,  and — the  acoustic 
qualities  of  the  court  were  bad — would  M.  de  Morte- 
mart take  a  seat  on  the  bench,  where  he  and  his  brother 
judges  could  better  hear  him?  The  officer  did  not 
mind,  though  he  was  not  inconvenienced  where  he  was, 
but,  of  course,  if  their  lordships  desired.  And  so  forth. 

"  Now,"  the  judge  said  with  great  sweetness,  when 
he  had  reached  the  exalted  elevation,  "would  M.  de 
Mortemart  give  himself  the  trouble  to  state  how  the 
fellow  before  them  had  fallen  into  his  hands  ?  "  M.  de 
Mortemart  did  give  himself  the  trouble — telling,  how- 
ever, exactly  what  he  thought  fit,  and  also  omitting 
many  facts  which  he  did  not  feel  disposed  to  mention 
— to  wit,  he  contented  himself  by  saying  that  the  "  gen- 


260  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

tleman  "  in  the  dock  had  been  betrayed  by  a  woman  into 
their  hands — a  "  treacherous  reptile  "  he  termed  her — 
but  he  said  nothing  about  St.  Georges  having  acknowl- 
edged that  he  had  been  a  soldier  of  France  once,  and 
had  afterward  fought  on  the  English  side  against 
France.  To  his  young  and  chivalrous  mind  it  was,  in- 
deed, a  terrible  thing  that  any  Frenchman  should  join 
with  England  against  his  own  country,  but — he  did  not 
say  so  to  the  judge  trying  that  man.  The  case  was  bad 
enough  against  him  without  that. 

•In  answer  to  further  questions  put  with  great  polite- 
ness and  an  evident  desire  on  the  judge's  part  not  to 
bore  the  son  of  the  Due  de  Mortemart  too  much,  he 
stated  that  according  to  orders,  he  had  escorted  the 
gentleman  in  trouble  to  Paris,  and  that  he  had  ridden 
by  that  gentleman's  side  all  the  way,  treating  him  as 
well  as  possible.  Yes,  he  was  bound  to  say  he  sym- 
pathized with  the  prisoner  (he  did  not  say  that  he 
wished  to  Heaven  the  prisoner  had  availed  himself  of 
many  opportunities  he  had  given  him  of  escaping) ;  he 
thought  he  had  been  hardly  treated — especially  by  the 
woman  who  was,  in  truth,  a  viper.  Did  he  mean  to 
say,  the  judge  asked  almost  apologetically,  that  he  had 
allowed  the  prisoner  to  ride  unbound  by  his  side  ?  Yes, 
he  did  mean  to  say  so ;  the  prisoner  had  made  no  at- 
tempt, either,  to  take  advantage  of  the  license.  Did 
Monsieur  de  Mortemart  think  that  was  wise  on  his  part 
as  an  officer?  Yes,  on  his  part  as  an  officer  he  did 
think  so.  He  was  an  officer  ;  not " — and  here  he  cast 
his  eye  on  the  turnkeys  and  jailers  in  the  court " — "  the 
canaille"  And,  in  effect,  the  prisoner  was  before  the 
court;  that  justified  him. 

After  this  the  judges  ceased  to  ask  the  Due  de 
Mortemart's  son  any  further  questions,  but  went  on 


ST.  GEORGES'S  DOOM.  261 

with  other  matters.  One  of  the  canaille,  a  jailer,  was 
put  on  the  witness  stand  and  questioned  briefly.  "  Speak, 
fellow,"  said  the  president  in  a  totally  different  tone 
from  that  which  he  had  hitherto  used  to  the  duke's  son, 
"  have  you  examined  the  prisoner — is  he  branded  ?  " 

"  He  is,  my  lord,  on  his  shoulder ;  an  undoubted 
galerien." 

"  Enough !     Stand  down." 

"  Prisoner,"  addressing  St.  Georges,  "  what  have  you 
to  say?" 

"  Nothing.     Do  your  worst." 

"No  justification  of  your  quitting  the  galleys?" 

"  Nothing  that  you  would  accept  as  such.  Yet  this 
I  will  say :  I  did  not  escape  of  my  own  attempt ;  the 
galley  I  was  in  was  sunk  by  an  English  admiral  off 
their  coast ;  almost  all  were  lost.  I  was  saved  and  taken 
back  to  England." 

"  So  !  That  may  make  a  difference.  What  was  the 
galley's  name  ?  " 

"  L'Idole." 

Here  the  judge  on  the  president's  right  hand  leaned 
over  to  him  and  said  :  "  This  may  be  the  truth.  I  had 
a  nephew,  an  officer,  on  board  L'Idole — she  was  sunk." 

"  Allowing  such  to  be  the  case,  prisoner,  how  comes 
it  you  are  back  in  France  ?  " 

"  I  desired  to  return,  and  took  the  first  opportunity." 

"  Ay,  he  did,"  suddenly  roared  out  a  voice  in  the 
court.  "  And  ask  him  how  he  returned,  my  lord ;  ask 
him  that ! " 

In  an  instant  all  eyes  were  turned  to  the  place 
whence  the  sound  came,  and  the  presiding  judge  became 
scarlet  in  the  face  at  any  one  having  the  presumption 
to  so  bawl  at  him  in  the  court.  "Exempts,"  he  cried, 
"  find  out  the  ruffian  who  dares  to  outrage  the  king's 


262  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

justice  by  bellowing  before  us  thus.  Find  him  out,  I 
say,  and  bring  him  before  us !  " 

It  required,  however,  very  little  "  finding  out,"  since 
he  who  had  so  cried  was  the  man  whom  the  procureur 
du  Koi  had  spoken  of  as  having  abandoned  his  ship  at 
La  Hogue  and  fled  to  Paris,  and  was  now  present  as  a 
prisoner  in  the  court  to  be  tried  for  his  offence.  Nor 
was  there  much  need  to  hustle  and  drag  him  forward, 
since  he  came  willingly  enough — he  thought  he  saw 
here  an  immunity  from  punishment — if  punishment  be 
deserved — a  chance  of  escape  by  the  evidence  he  could 
give. 

"  Who  is  the  fellow  ?  "  asked  De  Rennie,  when,  partly 
by  the  man's  own  willing  efforts  and  partly  by  pushings 
and  jostlings,  he  had  been  got  on  to  the  witness  stand 
with  two  jailers  on  either  side  of  him.  "  Who  is  he?" 

"  He  is,  my  lord,"  the  procureur  du  roi  said,  "  the 
man  who  is  charged  with  deserting  his  ship  at  La 
Hogue  and  fleeing  to  Paris.  He  says,  however,  he  can 
give  evidence  against  the  galerien  here  which  will  also 
go  far  to  absolve  him  of  his  desertion — if  your  lordships 
will  hear  him." 

"  Ay,"  said  De  Rennie,  "  we  will  hear  him  very  will- 
ingly. But,"  he  said,  addressing  the  sailor,  "  tell  no 
lies,  fellow,  in  hope  of  escaping  your  own  punishment. 
Understand  that !  And  understand,  also,  that  you  must 
justify  your  own  desertion." 

"  I  need  tell  no  lies,"  the  man  replied,  a  rough,  bull 
faced  and  throated  man,  with  every  mark  of  a  seaman 
about  him,  "  to  justify  myself.  And  there  was  no  deser- 
tion. Mon  Dieu!  was  Tourville  a  deserter  when  ho 
went  ashore  from  L'Ambitieux  ?  If  so,  then  I  am  one, 
for  I  went  with  him." 

"  Tell  your  tale,"  De  Rennio  exclaimed  angrily,  the 


ST.  GEORGES'S  DOOM.  263 

man's  utter  want  of  respect  irritating  him,  "  and  speak 
no  slander  against  the  king's  officers." 

"  Slander ! "  the  sailor  repeated — "  slander  !  How 
slander  ?  I  am  Tourville's  own  coxswain ;  acted  under 
his  orders " 

"  Go  on ! "  roared  the  judge.  "  Your  evidence  against 
the  prisoner.  Your  evidence ! " 

Briefly  the  man's  evidence  was  this — and  as  he  told 
it  all  in  the  court  knew  that  the  fate  of  the  prisoner  was 
sealed.  After  that  nothing  could  save  him. 

The  man  was  Tourville's  coxswain — he  produced  a 
filthy,  water-soaked  paper  from  his  breast  to  prove  it — 
had  been  with  him  in  Le  Soleil  Royal,  had  gone  with 
the  admiral  when  he  transferred  his  flag  to  L'Ambitieux, 
had  taken  that  flag  from  the  lieutenant's  hands  and, 
with  his  own,  hauled  it  up  on  the  latter  vessel. 

"  But,"  continued  the  man,  "  it  was  not  for  long. 
The  English  had  got  us  in  shoal  water,  their  fireships 
and  attenders  came  at  us  and  burned  us ;  their  board- 
ing parties  came  in  two  hundred  boats — we  could  do 
nothing  after  the  first  resistance !  And  among  those 
boarding  parties  " — and  he  lifted  his  finger  and  pointed 
at  the  prisoner  in  the  dock — "  was  one  in  command  of 
that  man — that,  standing  there  in  the  dock." 

"  Fellow !  "  exclaimed  the  judge,  "  this  is  a  French- 
man. Beware ! — no  lies." 

"  I  tell  no  lies.  It  is  the  truth.  Ask  him.  He  was 
on  the  deck  of  L'Ambitieux  with  a  dozen  other  boat 
crews ;  we  could  not  resist ;  their  whole  fleet  came  over 
our  sides ;  the  admiral  and  I  left  in  the  same  boat,  he 
bade  us  all  save  ourselves,  gave  us  our  freedom,  dis- 
banded us.  Send  for  him,  ask  him  if  I  am  a  deserter. 
Ask,  too,  that  man,  if  he  fought  not  against  us  on  the 
English  side." 


264  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"You  hear,"  De  Rennie  said,  looking  toward  St. 
Georges,  "  the  charge  against  you — that  you,  a  French- 
man, fought  on  the  English  side  against  your  country. 
Answer  the  court,  is  it  true  ?  " 

With  all  eyes  turned  on  him — the  pitying  eyes  of 
De  Mortemart,  the  scowling  eyes  of  the  judges,  and  the 
vindictive  eyes  of  most  people  in  the  court,  who,  having 
been  hitherto  inclined  to  sympathize  with  the  prisoner, 
now  only  thirsted  for  his  death — St.  Georges  drew  him- 
self up  and  faced  his  inquirer.  Then,  a  moment  later, 
he  said :  "  It  is  true." 

Those  words  were  the  signal  for  an  indescribable 
hubbub  in  the  court.  Men  muttered  fiercely,  "  Burn 
him,  burn  him!"  women  shrieked  to  one  another  that 
no  wonder  the  English  devils  had  beaten  France  when 
Frenchmen  fought  on  their  side,  forgetting  the  mothers 
that  bore  them ;  and  De  Mortemart,  muttering  between 
white  lips :  "  My  God  !  nothing  can  save  him,"  left  the 
court  The  coxswain,  too,  who  but  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  had  heard  hissed  in  his  ears  the  words 
"  Idche"  " deserteur"  " miserable"  and  other  epithets, 
was  now  the  centre  of  a  group  of  turnkeys  and  exempts, 
all  asking  him  why  he  had  not  told  them  before  that  he 
was  a  hero? 

Meanwhile  the  procureur  du  roi,  arrayed  in  his  scar- 
let gown,  sat  at  his  table  arranging  his  papers — there 
would  be  no  further  trials  that  day,  he  knew,  the  Jan- 
senists  and  others  would  have  to  wait — and  glancing  up 
now  and  again  at  the  other  three  scarlet-robed  figures 
on  the  bench,  conferring  with  their  heads  close  to- 
gether. Presently,  however,  a  nod  from  De  Rennie 
to  the  greffier  caused  that  official  to  bawl  out  orders 
for  silence  in  the  court,  and  forced  the  muttering  men 
and  shrieking  women  to  hold  their  tongues.  They 


THE  LAST  CHANCE.  265 

did  so,  willingly  enough,  too;  they  knew  what  was 
coming. 

"  Are  your  lordships  prepared  to  deliver  judgment  ?  " 
asked  the  procureur  du  roi,  carrying  out  the  usual  for- 
mula and  pushing  his  papers  away  and  rising  as  he 
addressed  them. 

"  We  are  prepared,"  the  president  replied. 

"  I  pray  your  lordships  do  so." 

"  The  sentence  of  the  court  is  that  the  prisoner  be 
taken  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  from  there  to  the  Place 
de  Greve,  and  there  broken  on  the  wheel  till  he  is 
dead." 

More  murmurings,  more  exclamations  from  the  nerv- 
ous, excited  crowd,  and  then  a  hush,  while  again  the 
procureur's  voice  was  heard  : 

"I  pray  your  lordships  to  appoint  a  day  and  hour  on 
which  your  righteous  sentence  shall  be  carried  out." 

"  The  decree  of  the  court  is  that  the  sentence  be 
carried  out  at  the  daybreak  following  the  time  when 
forty-eight  hours  shall  have  elapsed  from  now." 

"  In  the  name  of  justice  I  thank  your  lordships. — 
Prisoner,"  and  the  procureur  turned  to  him,  "  you  hear 
and  understand  your  sentence  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hear  and  understand  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   LAST   CHANCE. 

OUTSIDE  the  court  all  was  sunshine  and  brightness 
on  that  June  evening,  and  all  the  people  streaming  out 
in  the  warm  air — that  yet  seemed  fresh  and  cool  after 
18 


266  IN  THE   DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

the  stuffiness  within — chattered  and  laughed  and 
chuckled  at  the  exciting  day  they  had  had. 

"  For,  ftgurez  vous"  said  one,  a  hideous  creature, 
"  when  we  went  to  see  the  marchioness  tried  we  could 
only  hope  she  would  be  condemned,  though  all  the  while 
we  know  well  that  for  the  noblesse  there  is  no  serious 
punishment.  Ma  foil  what  a  punishment!  Twenty 
pistoles — a  sum  she  pays  weekly,  I'll  be  sworn,  for  abso- 
lution— and  a  retraite  from  Paris  for  a  year.  Tiens  !  she 
was  not  ill  favoured,  that  marchioness ;  she  will  doubt- 
less have  a  score  of  lovers  follow  her  into  the  country. 
Say,  Babette,"  and  she  turned  to  a  pale-faced  girl  by  her 
side,  "  shall  we  go  to  the  Place  de  Greve  to  see  that  vil- 
lain broken  ?  Daybreak,  after  forty-eight  hours ;  that 
will  be  daybreak  on  Monday.  To-day  is  Friday  !  " 

"  Not  I,"  the  pale-faced  girl  replied.  "  For  my  part 
I  could  pity  him — only  that  he  fought  against  France. 
It  etait  beau,  cet  homme  la  bas.  His  mustache  was 
enough  to  set  a  girl  dreaming.  And  his  eyes !  del ! 
what  eyes,  when  he  faced  the  old  herisson,  De  Ren- 
nie!" 

"Ah,  bah!  His  eyes!  Curse  them,  and  him,  too! 
He  is  a  traitor." 

"  All  the  same,  he  is  handsome.  I  wonder  how  many 
women  love  him  ?  " 

But  now  they  stood  apart  from  the  courtyard  to  look 
at  a  troop  of  the  Mousquetaires  Noirs  riding  away  from 
the  precincts  of  the  court  itself — where  they  had  been  on 
guard  all  day — and  to  admire  their  trappings  and 
bravery.  And  the  pale-faced  girl,  who  seemed — like 
many  other  pale-faced,  cadaverous  girls! — to  have  a 
great  appreciation  of  manly  beauty,  tugged  at  her  com- 
panion's arm,  and  bade  her  observe  the  two  handsome 
officers  in  conversation  under  the  gateway. 


THE  LAST  CHANCE.  267 

"  See,  Manon,  see ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  There  is  the 
one  who  said  he  was  son  to  the  Due  de " 

"  I  hate  all  dukes,"  interrupted  the  other,  "  and  all 
the  noblesse.  They  grind  the  poor." 

"  Yet  he  seemed  kind.  He  would  have  saved  that 
one,  I  do  believe,  if  he  could.  And  how  he  spoke  to  the 
judge — as  he  himself  speaks  to  others — like  to  a  dog! 
And  his  companion,  the  officer  of  Mousquetaires  who 
does  not  follow  the  troop.  Mon  Dieu  !  it  est  beau  aussi. 
How  many  handsome  men  we  see  to-day ! " 

"  Ah  !  voyons"  exclaimed  the  other,  grimacing  irri- 
tably, "  les  beaux  !  les  beaux  !  Nothing  but  Us  beaux  ! 
Some  day,  Babette,  you  will  regret  your  admiration  of 
the  men." 

"  He  looks  pale  and  troubled,  does  that  mousque- 
taire,"  the  girl  replied,  taking  no  heed  of  the  elder 
woman's  reproofs ;  and  then  they  passed  on  to  the  foul 
quarter  of  Paris  where  they  dwelt,  and  where  dukes' 
sons  and  handsome  mousquetaires  did  not  often  obtrude 
themselves. 

Had  she  been  able  to  overhear  the  commencement  of 
the  conversation  between  De  Mortemart  and  that  officer 
of  Mousquetaires  she  would  probably  not  have  wondered 
at  the  pallor  which  overspread  the  latter's  face,  nor  at 
his  look  of  trouble. 

When  the  young  fellow  had  fled  out  of  the  court, 
unable  to  remain  and  hear  that  doom  pronounced  on  St. 
Georges,  which  he  knew  must  come,  he  had  gone  straight 
to  the  guardroom  with  the  intention  of  removing  the 
three  men  of  his  troop  whom  he  had  brought  with  him 
to  Paris  in  charge  of  their  prisoner.  Their  work  was 
done  in  Paris,  he  knew  ;  it  was  best  they  should  take  the 
road  back  to  Rambouillet  at  once.  It  was  but  eight 
leagues,  and  the  summer  nights  were  long ;  they  could 


268  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

ride  that  easily  and  regain  their  quarters  almost  without 
halting. 

But  as  he  entered  the  room  set  apart  for  officers  pre- 
paratory to  summoning  his  men,  he  saw  that  which  pre- 
vented him  from  doing  so  for  some  little  time  longer. 
He  saw,  seated  in  a  deep  wooden  chair,  his  wig  off,  and 
fast  asleep  in  that  chair — with  a  flask  of  wine  by  his 
side — an  officer  of  the  guard  for  the  day,  whose  face  he 
knew  very  well  indeed.  The  Regiment  de  G ranee  was 
not  always  quartered  at  such  dead-and-alive  places  as 
Rambouillet ;  it  was  sometimes  accorded  the  privilege  of 
being  in  attendance  on  the  court  itself — since  it  was 
officered  from  the  aristocrats  as  a  rule,  the  colonel  gen- 
erally being  an  exception,  and  selected  because  of  his 
services — and  at  Versailles  it  had,  not  long  ago,  been 
thrown  in  with  the  Mousquetaires  Noirs. 

"  Tiens,  Boussac ! "  the  young  fellow  cried,  slapping 
the  sleeping  officer  on  the  shoulder,  and  disturbing  his 
slumbers;  "rouse  yourself,  man;  the  court  will  be  up 
directly — already  your  brother  officer  is  chuckling  that 
his  guard  hour  will  not  last  half  a  one." 

"  De  Mortemart ! "  cried  Boussac,  springing  from  his 
seat  and  grasping  the  newcomer's  hand  with  his  own, 
while  with  the  other  he  clapped  his  wig  on.  "  De  Morte- 
raart — what  brings  you  here?  Have  you  got  the  route, 
is  the  regiment  returned  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  No  such  chance,  mon  ami,  our  luck  is  out.  Neither 
Paris,  nor,  ma  foi !  a  campaign  for  us — we  are  stewed 
up  in  Rambouillet  for  another  year.  And,  peste!  tho 
only  woman  there  worth  a  pistole  has  turned  out  the 
vilest  of  creatures.  We  cannot  even  sup  with  her  now, 
or  take  a  glass  of  ratafia  or  a  cup  of  chocolate  from  her 
hands." 

"That  is  not  well.     But  what — what — brings  you 


THE  LAST  CHANCE.  269 

here?  Come,  tell  me,"  and  drawing  the  wine  flask 
toward  him  he  poured  out  a  drink  for  his  comrade. 
"  And  you  look  sad,  De  Mortemart ;  is  it  because  of  the 
*  vilest  of  creatures  '  ?  " 

Then,  without  more  ado,  his  friend  told  what  had 
brought  him  to  Paris  and  in  the  vicinity  of  the  cours 
crimineL 

As  he  proceeded  with  his  story — telling  it  all  from 
the  beginning,  when  la  belle  Louvigny  had  sent  to  the 
commandant,  apprising  him  of  an  escaped  galerien  in 
her  house — he  marvelled  at  the  excitement  which  took 
possession  of  his  auditor.  At  the  statement  that  the 
betrayed  man  was  branded,  was  in  truth  an  escaped 
galley  slave,  Boussac  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and  com- 
menced to  pace  the  guardroom ;  when  he  described  the 
scene  he  had  witnessed  between  him  and  Madame  de 
Louvigny,  he  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"  The  man,  De  Mortemart,  the  man ! "  he  broke 
out,  "  describe  him  to  me."  And  without  giving  his 
friend  time  to  do  so,  he  went  on  : 

"  Tall,  slight,  long  brown  hair,  curling  at  the  ends, 
gray  eyes — deep  and  clear.  Gentleman  to  the  tips  of 
his  fingers ;  a  soldier  above  all." 

"  Ay,  he  has  been  a  soldier." 

"  And  his  name — his  name,  my  friend.  It  must  be 
St.  Georges.  Come  from  England,  you  say,  with  the 
English  fleet.  It  is  St.  Georges  !  " 

"  Nay,  his  name  he  will  not  tell.  But  this  I  know  : 
he  was  once  of  the  Chevaux-Legers  of  Nivernois." 

"  My  God  !  it  is  he ! "  and  overcome  with  excite- 
ment Boussac  sank  back  into  his  seat  again. 

Rapidly  De  Mortemart  told  the  rest — the  coxswain's 
evidence ;  the  certain  doom  that  must  be  St.  Georges's 
must  be  pronounced  by  now,  since,  outside,  the  clatter 


270  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

of  the  Mousquetaires  could  be  heard,  proclaiming  already 
clearly  enough  that  the  court  was  up,  the  sentence 
awarded. 

"  I  must  know  all ! "  Boussac  cried,  and  followed  by 
the  other  he  rushed  out.  And  then  he  learned  the 
galerieti's  doom — wheel  on  the  third  morning  from  now. 

No  wonder  the  pale-faced  girl  thought  he  looked  sad 
as  he  stood  in  the  gateway  bidding  De  Mortemart  a 
hasty  farewell. 

"  If  I  can,"  he  said,  "  I  must  save  him ;  must  if  ne- 
cessary see  the  king.  I  am  mousquetaire — I  have  the 
right  of  audience." 

"  Nothing  can  save  him,"  the  other  replied.  "  He 
has  served  Louis,  and  he  has  fought  against  him — on 
the  conquering  side.  That  is  enough  1 " 

"  Yet,"  said  Boussac,  "  I  will  try.  I  can  tell  Louis 
something  of  his  history  that  may — though  the  chance 
is  poor,  God  knows ! — induce  him  to  hold  his  hand.  Or, 
at  least,  to  let  the  doom  be  something  less  awful  than 
the  wheel." 

So  they  parted,  the  one  to  take  his  men  buck  to 
Kambouillet,  the  other  to  try  and  save  St.  Georges,  vain 
as  he  feared  the  attempt  would  be. 

First,  he  sought  a  messenger,  a  trusty  honest  man 
he  knew  of,  himself  an  old  disbanded  soldier,  and  told 
him  he  must  ride  that  night  on  a  message  of  life  and 
death.  Would  he  promise  to  let  nothing  stand  in  his 
way  ? — he  should  be  well  rewarded. 

" Never  fear,  monsieur.     To  where  must  I  ride?" 

"  To  Troyes.     You  can  obtain  a  good  horse  ?  " 

"Ay!  or  get  a  renfort  on  the  road.  'Tis  thirty 
leagues,  but  I  will  manage  it.  What  have  I  to  do  when 
there?" 

"  This.     Make  for  the  Manoir  de  Roquemaure,  then 


THE  LAST  CHANCE.  271 

see  at  once  la  chatelaine.  Mademoiselle  de  Koquemaure — 
she  rules  it  since  her  mother's  death.  Next,  give  her 
this.  Put  it  into  her  own  hand  and  no  other.  In 
the  name  of  God  fail  not !  Again  I  say,  it  is  life  or 
death ! " 

"  Fear  not.     I  will  not  fail.     In  half  an  hour  I  am 
on  the  road.    Hark !  the  clock  strikes  from  the  Tour  St. 
Jacques ;  'tis  seven  o'clock — ere  it  strikes  the  same  hour 
in  the  morning  I  shall  be  there  and  to  spare — or  dead.'' 
"  Brave  man  !     Good  soldier  !     I  believe  you.     Go." 
"What  the  old  soldier  was  to  give  into  the  hand  of 
Aurelie  de  Roquemaure  was  a  letter  containing  the  fol- 
lowing hastily  scribbled  words : 

"  MADEMOISELLE  :  You  spoke  to  me  once  of  an  un- 
happy gentleman,  a  chevau-Uger ;  asked  me  if  he  was 
dead,  and  said  you  had  some  news  would  make  him 
happy  if  he  knew  it.  Mademoiselle,  he  is  not  dead,  but 
dies  on  Monday,  on  the  wheel — Monday  morning  next 
at  dawn !  He  has  returned  to  France,  fought  against 
Tourville  on  the  high  seas,  is  taken,  and,  as  I  say,  con- 
demned. If  you  have  any  power  with  the  king,  if  you 
know  aught  that  may  weigh  with  him,  I  beseech  you 
lose  no  effort.  It  is  Monday  morning,  I  repeat,  at 
dawn  that  he  dies.  Your  respectful  servitor, 

"  BOUSSAC." 

The  messenger  departed — and  about  his  fidelity  he 
had  no  doubt,  so  well  did  he  know  him — Boussac 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  to  where  the  three  troops 
of  the  Mousquetaires  now  in  Paris  on  guard  duty  were 
quartered.  Then  he  made  his  way  to  the  senior  officer 
in  command,  begged  leave  of  him  on  urgent  matters  of 
the  last  importance — so  urgent,  indeed,  did  he  represent 


272  IN  THE  DAY   OP  ADVERSITY. 

them  to  be  that  he  stated  he  was  about  to  seek  an  after- 
supper  audience  of  the  king — obtained  the  leave,  and, 
procuring  a  fresh  horse,  set  out  for  Versailles. 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  he  said,  "  who  St.  Georges  is, 
whom  he  believes  himself  to  be.  The  late  duke  was 
Louis's  friend  in  the  days  when  the  king's  heart  was 
young  and  fresh — surely  he  will,  at  least,  grant  a  re- 
prieve. More  especially  if  I  tell  him  all  of  De  Roque- 
maure's  villainy.  As  for  the  sister — if  she  is  what  St. 
Georges  told  me  in  his  last  letter  he  felt  convinced  she 
was — she  will  do  nothing.  Yet,  mon  Dieu!  mon  Dieu! 
who  can  look  in  those  eyes  as  I  have  done  and  deem  her 
so  vile?  Surely,  surely,  though  he  stands  in  her  way  so 
much,  she  will  not  let  him  go  to  his  doom.  Even 
though  she  knows  for  certain  he  is  De  Vannes,  she  will 
strive  to  save  him.  She  must ! " 

It  was  no  easy  thing  to  approach  Louis  at  the  after- 
supper  audience,  free  as  the  monarch  generally  made 
himself  for  an  hour  at  that  period,  and  in  spite  of  an 
officer  of  the  Mousquetaires  being  a  more  or  less  fa- 
voured person.  For  there  were  many  who  had  greater 
claims  than  a  mousquetaire  to  the  royal  ear,  the  royal 
salutation — a  finger  to  the  hat  for  a  man,  the  hat  lowered 
to  the  right  ear  for  a  lady — to  the  royal  smile. 

There  were,  to  wit,  the  bishops,  the  ladies  of  the 
court,  the  marshals  and  the  bastards,  the  ministers  and 
many  others.  And  to-night  the  king  was,  and  had  been 
for  some  days,  so  depressed,  so  for  him  almost  angry, 
that  few  took  this  period  for  presenting  petitions  or  re- 
quests. His  great  fleet  was  shattered  by  the  hereditary 
enemies  of  France — since  the  Spanish  Armada  no  fleet 
had  ever  been  so  shattered  ! — his  power  and  might  were 
broken,  even  if  for  a  time  only ;  and  though  he  had  told 
Tourville — with  that  royal  graciousness  which  scarcely 


THE  LAST  CHANCE.  273 

ever  deserted  him — that  he  was  satisfied  "  he  had  done 
his  best,"  he  was  in  no  humour  for  granting  boons. 

What  hope  was  there  that  a  mousquetaire  should  ob- 
tain aught  from  him  that  night ;  should  even  be  able  to 
approach  him?  Above  all,  what  hope  that  such  a  re- 
quest as  Boussac's — that  one  of  his  own  subjects  who 
had  helped  in  the  shattering  of  his  great  fleet  should  be 
pardoned — was  likely  to  be  granted  ? 

Yet,  at  last,  the  soldier  who  had  waited  so  patiently 
for  hours  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  circle  in  which 
the  arbiter  of  the  destiny  of  all  in  France  sat,  a  crowd 
of  courtiers  and  nervous  petitioners  behind  and  round 
him ;  at  last,  after  having  seen  countless  others  bowed 
and  smiled  to,  he  was  face  to  face  with  Louis,  stammer- 
ing and  scarce  knowing  how  to  begin  his  request. 

But  the  finger  went  to  the  hat,  the  king's  smile — 
perhaps  a  little  artificial  now — shone  on  him,  the  king's 
soft,  courtly  voice  said  : 

"  Monsieur  le  lieutenant,  have  you  a  petition  to  make 
also?  I  am  afraid  it  cannot  be  granted.  Is  it  for  pro- 
motion ?  " 

"  No,  sire.  It  is  for  a  man's  life,"  and  before  he 
thoroughly  understood,  himself,  what  he  was  saying,  he 
poured  out  his  story  before  the  king  and  the  astonished 
listeners.  And,  at  last,  in  a  halting,  laboured  way  it 
was  told.  Then  the  king  spoke,  while  the  shoulder- 
shrugging,  grinning  courtiers  held  their  breath  to  hear 
his  reply. 

"  Mon  brave  mousquetaire"  he  said,  "  you  have  been 
imposed  on.  De  Vannes  never  married.  I  know  it 
well — know,  too,  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  who  mar- 
ried De  Roquemaure.  And  even  if  he  had  married  and 
had  this  son,  do  you  think  I  would  pardon  him  for  doing 
that  for  which  he  lies  under  sentence  of  death?  Nay, 


274  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

were  he  my  own  I  would  not  do  so.  Ah  ! " — turning  to 
a  beautiful  blue-eyed  woman  who  stood  by  the  side  of 
Boussac,  "  Madame  de  Verneuil  " — and  the  hand  went  up 
to  the  hat  and  lowered  it  till  the  fringe  touched  his  right 
ear — "  I  rejoice  to  see  you  here  to-night." 
Boussac's  audience  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE   DAY   OF   EXECUTION. 

THE  night  of  Sunday  had  passed ;  already  the  holi- 
day-makers were  seeking  their  beds  after  a  day  spent  in 
the  country — by  some  in  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau 
and  St.  Germaius;  by  others  in  the  gardens  of  Ver- 
sailles, where  they  had  waited  all  day  to  see  the  king 
come  out  upon  the  great  balcony  and  salute  his  people ; 
by  others,  again,  who  had  been  to  Marly  to  gaze  in 
amazement  on  distorted  Nature ;  to  gaze  on  the  trees 
stuck  in  the  ground  which  would  not  grow  here  though 
they  had  flourished  for  a  century  elsewhere,  before  being 
uprooted  to  gratify  a  king's  caprice ;  on  artificial  lakes 
now  gay  with  caiques  and  gondolas  where  but  a  few 
years  ago  the  frogs  and  eels  had  held  undisputed  pos- 
session ;  on  a  palace  which  reared  its  new  walls  where 
starving  peasants'  hovels  had  been  not  long  since. 

The  holiday-makers  were  going  home  to  their  beds 
as  all  the  clocks  of  the  city  clanged  out  the  hour  of 
midnight;  all  were  about  to  seek  their  homes  ere  they 
commenced  the  new  week — a  week  that  to  most  of 
them  brought  nothing  but  hard,  griping  toil,  starvation, 
and  a  heavy  load  of  taxation  imposed  upon  them  by 


THE  DAY  OP  EXECUTION.  275 

that  king  whom  they  stared  at  and  reverenced,  and  by 
his  nobility. 

Yet  not  quite  all,  either !  For  some  there  were  who, 
as  they  streamed  across  the  Pont  Neuf,  or  came  in  from 
the  Charenton  gate,  or  arrived  back  from  Versailles  or 
Marly,  broke  off  in  solitary  twos  and  threes  from  the 
others  and  directed  their  footsteps  toward  the  great 
place  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville — toward  the  Place 
de  Greve !  They,  these  solitary  ones,  had  no  intention 
of  seeking  their  homes  and  beds  that  night — they  could 
sleep  long  and  well  to-morrow  night — instead  they  meant 
to  enjoy  themselves  in  the  place  until  day  broke,  with 
the  anticipation  of  what  the  daybreak  would  bring.  For 
at  that  hour  they  knew  they  would  see  a  man  done  to 
death  upon  the  wheel ;  see  limb  after  limb  broken  until 
life  was  extinguished  by  the  final  coup  de  grace. 

As  they  neared  the  great  open  space  some  cast  their 
eyes  up  at  the  lights  burning  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and 
muttered  to  each  other,  wondering  which  room  the  man 
was  in  who  would  be  led  forth  three  hours  hence ;  what  he 
was  thinking  of ;  if  he  was  counting  each  quarter  as  it 
sounded  from  tower  and  steeple;  if — these  specula- 
tions generally  by  women  in  the  fast-gathering  crowd 
— there  were  any  who  loved  him  ?  If  he  had  a  wife — a 
mother — a  child  ?  Any  to  mourn  his  loss  ? 

"  A  traitor,  they  say,"  some  whispered ;  "  one  who 
joined  England  against  France."  "  A  spy,"  others  mur- 
mured, "who betrayed  Tourville  to  the  brutal  islanders. 
Well,  he  deserves  the  dog's  death  !  Let  him  endure  it." 

The  quarters  boomed  forth  again  ;  at  half  past  twelve 
the  executioner  and  his  assistants  arrived  in  a  cart.  Or- 
dinarily they  came  earlier  when  they  had  a  scaffold 
to  erect  and  a  block  to  place  upon  it.  Now,  however, 
there  was  no  block  on  which  the  man's  head  would  need 


276  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

to  be  laid  to  receive  the  headsman's  stroke.  Instead,  a 
great  cannon  wheel  was  lifted  from  out  the  cart,  then 
next  a  wooden  platform  was  constructed,  having  in  it  a 
socket  of  raised  wood  into  which  the  wheel  was  dropped 
and  firmly  fixed  by  cords,  three  parts  of  it  towering 
above  that  socket.  Then  a  heap  of  ropes  brought  forth 
and  flung  down  beside  the  wheel — they  would  secure 
the  body  tightly  enough — following  the  heap  two  huge 
iron  bars  and  a  heavy  iron-bound  club.  That  was  all, 
yet  enough  to  do  justice  on  the  traitor. 

"La  toilette  de  la  Roue  est  faite,"  said  one  man,  a 
joker;  "  soon  his  will  be  made  also.  'Tis  well  the  early 
mornings  are  warm  now.  He  will  not  miss  his  clothes 
so  much  when  they  strip  him  to  his  singlet,"  and  he 
laughed  and  grinned  like  a  wolf  and  turned  his  eyes  on 
the  Hotel  de  Ville.  And  still,  as  the  moments  and  the 
quarters  crept  by,  they  chattered  and  talked  about  the 
coming  spectacle,  and  wondered  how  the  man  felt  in 
there  who  was  now  so  shortly  to  furnish  it.  If  they  could 
have  seen  him,  have  been  able  to  read  his  thoughts, 
they  would  have  been  little  gratified — perhaps,  indeed, 
a  little  dissatisfied — for  he  knew  as  well  as  they  that 
his  doom  was  fast  approaching,  that  the  clocks  were 
telling  of  his  fast-ebbing  hours  on  earth ;  knew,  too, 
that  down  below  the  wheel  was  being  prepared,  and 
bore  the  knowledge  calmly  and  with  resignation. 

As  they  discussed  down  in  the  place  what  he  might 
be  doing  and  speculated  on  what  his  feelings  were  in 
those  last  hours,  he  above,  at  the  iron-barred  window 
of  a  room  to  which  they  had  brought  him  after  his  sen- 
tence was  pronounced,  was  gazing  down  at  the  crowd 
gathering  to  see  him  die.  The  feelings  on  which  they 
speculated  so  much  were  scarcely  such  as  would  have 
satisfied  them. 


THE  DAY   OF  EXECUTION.  277 

"The  dawn  breaks,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as, 
although  heavily  chained  both  at  the  feet  and  hands,  he 
leaned  against  the  window  and  gazed  far  away  over  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  to,  across  the  Seine,  where  the  mists 
rose  in  the  fields — "  is  near  at  hand.  Another  hour  and 
daylight  will  have  come — and  then  it  is  ended !  So 
best ! — so  best ! " 

He  shifted  his  position  a  little,  still  gazing  out,  how- 
ever; then  continued  his  meditations: 

"  Yes,  so  best.  My  last  chance,  last  hope  of  life  was 
gone  when  M.  de  Mortemart  trusted  me — let  me  ride 
by  his  side  a  free  man  instead  of  bound.  Then  I  knew 
I  must  go  on — come  on — to  this.  I  could  have  stabbed 
him  to  the  heart  more  than  once — have  perhaps  evaded 
even  his  three  men — have  escaped — been  free — but  how ! 
By  treachery  unparalleled,  by  murder  and  deceit !  And, 
afterward,  a  life  of  reproach  and  self-contempt.  No ! 
better  this — better  that  wheel  below  than  such  a  free- 
dom!" 

Looking  down  now  at  the  crowd,  his  attention  was 
called  to  it  by  a  slight  stir  in  its  midst;  he  saw  a  troop 
of  dragoons  ride  in  to  the  place  and  observed  them  dis- 
tributing themselves  all  round  it  at  equal  distance  under 
the  orders  of  an  officer.  Also  he  saw  that  a  lane  was 
made  to  the  platform  where  the  wheel  stood — a  lane 
among  the  people  that  ended  at  the  platform  and  began 
he  knew  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  beneath  him, 
from  which  he  would  be  led  forth. 

"  Courage,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "  courage.  It 
will  not  be  long;  they  say  the  first  blow  sometimes 
brings  insensibility,  and  after  that  there  is  no  more. 
Only  death — death !  Death  with  my  little  child's 
name  upon  my  lips — that  name  the  last  word  I  shall 
ever  speak ;  my  last  thoughts  a  prayer  for  her." 


278  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

Gradually  now  he  let  himself  sink  to  the  floor,  his 
manacles  almost  preventing  him  from  doing  so,  and 
when  in  a  kneeling  position  he  buried  his  head  in  his 
ironbound  hands  and  prayed  long  and  fervently. 

"  0  God,"  he  murmured,  "  thou  who  hast  in  thy 
wisdom  torn  her  from  me,'  keep  and  guard  her  ever,  I 
beseech  thee,  in  this  my  darkest  hour;  let  her  never 
know  her  father's  sorrow,  nor  share  the  adversity  thou 
hast  thought  fit  to  visit  upon  him.  And,  since  I  may 
never  gaze  on  her  face  again,  see  her  whom  I  have  so 
dearly  loved,  so  mourned  for,  never  hear  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  be  thou  her  earthly  as  her  heavenly  Father ; 
sleeping  and  waking,  oh,  watch  over  her  still ! " 

Then,  because  the  thoughts  of  her  were  more  than 
he  could  bear,  and  because  he  knew  that  the  child  whom 
he  had  loved  so  dearly — the  child  whose  future  life  he 
had  once  sworn  solemnly  to  her  dying  mother  should 
be  dearer  to  him  than  his  own — would  never  know  his 
fate  nor  his  regrets,  he  buried  his  head  once  more  in 
those  manacled  hands  and  wailed  :  "  My  child  !  my  child  ! 
My  little  lost  child  !  Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  ! 

"  If  I  could  only  know,"  he  murmured,  later,  "  that 
you  were  well,  happy — feel  sure,  as  that  woman  told  me 
once  herself,  and  Boussac  thought — that  whoever  lias 
you  in  his  keeping  was  not  cruel  to  you,  my  little, 
helpless  child,  the  end  might  be  easier.  If  I  could  only 
know !  0  Dorine  !  Dorine  !  " 

Looking  up,  as  he  strove  with  his  two  hands,  so 
tightly  chained  together,  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his  eyes, 
he  noticed  that  the  room  was  lighter  now ;  the  sky  was 
a  clear  daffodil.  Daybreak  was  coming;  the  day  was  at 
hand — his  last  on  earth  ! 

And  again  he  whispered :  "  It  is  better  so.  But  for 
her  there  is  naught  to  hold  me  to  life.  Better  so. 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION.  279 

Now" — and  as  he  spoke  to  himself,  across  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  the  first  rays  of  the  summer  sun  shot  up — 
"  now  be  brave.  The  end  is  near ;  meet  it  like  a  man. 
And  remember,  her  name  the  last  word  on  your  lips — 
the  last  ere  your  soul  goes  to  meet  its  God ! " 

A  murmur,  a  noise  from  the  crowd  below  waiting 
for  its  victim,  caused  him  to  look  forth  again  from  the 
window,  and  to  observe  that  some  new  officials  had  ar- 
rived. A  horseman  in  a  rich  scarlet  coat,  over  which, 
however,  he  wore  a  riding  cloak — for  the  morning  was 
still  chilly — followed  by  two  others  in  sober  blue  coats 
trimmed  with  silver  lace,  was  making  his  way  down  the 
lane  of  people  and  was  being  greeted  by  the  crowd. 

Yet,  to  the  doomed  man  standing  by  the  window,  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  altogether  popular  with  them,  es- 
pecially when  he  suddenly  halted  his  horse,  and  turn- 
ing round  on  the  vast  concourse  behind  him,  said  some- 
thing to  them,  accompanied  with  a  comprehensive  wave 
of  his  disengaged  hand — something  that  vexed  and  an- 
noyed that  concourse  terribly,  he  could  see,  and  hear, 
too — a  vexation  increased  when,  after  the  other  had 
spoken  a  further  word  to  the  officer  in  command  of  the 
dragoons,  they  began  to  close  in  from  the  outside  of 
the  place  round  the  assembled  mob. 

Then  the  horseman  disappeared  from  St.  Georges's 
view,  evidently  having  entered  the  door  beneath  his 
window,  and  again  the  people  murmured  and  shrieked. 

"  Has  he  given  orders  to  clear  them  away,"  he  be- 
gan to  speculate,  "  so  that  they  may  not  witness  my 
end  ? "  but  his  speculation  was  not  concluded. 

On  the  stone  steps  outside  he  could  hear  the  tread  of 
many  feet,  the  clang  of  spurs  and  of  swords  as  those 
who  wore  them  mounted  the  stairs. 

"  They  are  coming  for  me,"  he  thought,  and  again 


280  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

he  whispered :  "  The  time  is  at  hand.  Courage  !  Be 
brave ! " 

The  keys  turned  grating  in  the  locks,  a  great  trans- 
verse bar  outside  was  moved  with  a  clash,  and  the  door 
opened,  the  first  person  to  enter  being  the  newly  arrived 
horseman,  followed  by  the  principal  official  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  and  next  by  some  of  his  subordinate  officers, 
as  well  as  the  jailers,  one  of  whom  carried  in  his 
hands  a  large  iron  hammer  and  the  other  a  great  bunch 
of  keys. 

And  St.  Georges,  standing  there  facing  them,  looked 
as  brave  a  gentleman  as  any  who  had  ever  been  led  to 
his  fate. 

"  This  is  the  condemned  man  ?  "  the  horseman  asked 
of  the  chief  official ;  "  the  man  who  was  sentenced  at 
the  cours  criminel  on  Friday  last  to  die  this  morning?" 

*'  It  is  the  man,  Monsieur  1'Herault,"  the  official  re- 
plied, his  questioner  being  none  other  than  L'Herault, 
the  head  of  the  police  system. 

"  Remove  his  irons." 

At  this  order  the  two  jailers  stepped  forward,  the 
one  unlocking  the  fetters  that  bound  St.  Georges's 
hands,  the  other  knocking  away  with  the  hammer  the 
iron  pegs  that  ran  through  the  steel  ring  which  held  the 
chains  round  his  ankles.  And  in  less  than  three  mo- 
ments chains  and  fetters  lay  at  his  feet. 

"  Here  is  the  warrant,"  L'Herault  said,  handing  it 
to  the  governor  of  the  H6tel  de  Ville — for  such  the 
principal  official  by  his  side  was — "  read  it  aloud  to  the 
prisoner,"  and  it  was  read  accordingly.  It  ran  : 

"To  M.  1'Herault,  superintendent  of  our  police,  and 
to  the  governor  of  our  H6tel  de  Ville  at  Paris : 

"  It  is  our  royal  will  that  the  prisoner  tried  at  our 


THE  DAY  OF  EXECUTION.  281 

cours  criminel  by  M.  Barthe  de  la  Eennie,  one  of  our 
judges,  and  sentenced  to  die  on  tha  morning  of  Mon- 
day, the  2Gth  June  of  this  year  1692,  be  released  and  set 
free  unconditionally.  And  may " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  reeling  backward, 
and  speaking  in  a  hoarse  whisper — "  what !  what  does 
this  mean  ?  Who  has  written  that  ?  " 

"The  king,"  L'Herault  answered.  Then  he  said 
briefly,  "  You  are  free." 

"Free!  Not  to  go  to— to  that?"  and  he  pointed 
below. 

"  Not  to  go  to  that — though  'tis  where  escaped  gale- 
riens  usually  go  sooner  or  later.  Your  time  is  not  yet 
come,  it  seems.  I  know  no  more,  except  that  at  mid- 
night I  was  roused  from  my  bed  to  ride  here  with  this," 
pointing  to  the  paper  in  the  governor's  hand,  "  and  with 
this,"  putting  another  in  St.  Georges's.  "  It  will,"  he 
continued,  "  bear  you  harmless  in  France  so  long  as  you 
offend  no  more." 

"  Sir,"  St.  Georges  said,  and  as  he  spoke  L'Herault 
looked  at  him,  wondering  if  in  truth  this  was  an  inno- 
cent man  before  him,  "  for  your  errand  of  mercy  I  thank 
you.  Yet,  believe  me  or  not  as  you  will,  I  had  com- 
mitted no  sin  when  I  went  to  the  galleys." 

Then  he  read  the  paper  handed  to  him.  It  also  was 
brief : 

"  The  man  bearing  this  is  to  be  held  free  of  arrest  on 
any  charge  and  to  be  allowed  to  pass  in  freedom  through 
all  and  any  of  our  dominions.  His  name  is  Georges  St. 
Georges,  and  he  is  branded  with  the  fleur-de-lis  and  the 
letter  G.  Signe,  Louis  R." 

19 


282  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  reiterated  St.  Georges. 
"  Who  can  have  done  this  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  said  L'Herault,  "  that  you  have  some 
powerful  interest  with  his  Majesty.  Whomsoever  you 
may  be,  even  though  you  were  one  of  the  king's 
own  sons,  you  must  be  deemed  fortunate.  However 
great  your  friends  may  be,  your  escape  is  remark- 
able." 

"  Friends !  I  have  none.  I "  but  the  sentence 

was  never  finished.  The  excitement  of  the  last  hour 
had  overmastered  him  at  last  and  he  sank  in  a  swoon 
before  them. 

When  he  came  to  himself  the  others  were  gone  with 
the  exception  of  one  turnkey,  who  was  kneeling  by  his 
side,  supporting  his  head  and  moistening  his  lips  with 
brandy.  But  in  the  place  of  those  who  had  departed 
there  was  another  now,  a  man  at  whom  St.  Georges 
stared  with  uncertain  eyes  as  though  doubting  whether 
his  senses  were  not  still  playing  him  false ;  a  man  also 
on  one  knee  by  his  side,  clad  in  the  handsome  uniform 
of  the  Mousquetaires  Noirs. 

"  Boussac ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Boussac  !  Is  it  in 
truth  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  I,  my  friend." 

Then,  as  St.  Georges's  senses  came  fully  back  to 
him,  he  seized  the  other's  hand  and  murmured  :  "  You  ! 
It  is  you  have  done  this!  Through  you  that  I  am 
saved." 

"  You  are  saved,  my  friend.  That  is  enough.  What 
matter  by  whom  ?  " 


"I   WILL  NEVER  FORGIVE  HER."  283 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"I   WILL   NEVER   FORGIVE   HER." 

ONCE  more  St.  Georges  was  on  the  road,  head- 
ing straight  for  Troyes,  and  by  his  side  once  more 
rode  a  friend,  as  he  had  ridden  over  four  years  ago — 
Boussac ! 

When  he  had  thoroughly  recovered  from  the  swoon 
into  which  he  had  fallen  on  hearing  that  he  was  free, 
he  had  again  and  again  overwhelmed  the  mousquetaire 
with  his  gratitude — all  of  which  the  latter  had  refused 
to  accept,  and  had,  indeed,  gently  repudiated.  Also  it 
seemed  to  St.  Georges  that  he  avoided  the  subject,  or  at 
least  said  as  little  as  possible. 

"  If,"  he  said,  when  at  last  they  were  seated  in  an 
inn  off  the  new  Rue  Richelieu  to  which  he  had  led 
St.  Georges,  "  there  is  anything  to  which  you  owe  your 
freedom  more  than  another,  it  is  to  the  fact  that  the 
king  must  recognise  that  you  are  in  truth  le  Due  de 
Vannes,  the  son  of  his  earliest  friend.  Yet — yet " — he 
continued  in  an  embarrassed  manner — "he  would  not 
even  allow  that  that  should  influence  him — when — I 
pleaded  for  you. 

"  But  it  did — it  did,  Boussac,  it  did.  He  must  have 
pondered  on  it  afterward — perhaps  reflected  on  how  un- 
justly I  had  been  treated  by  his  vile  minister,  Louvois — 
you  say  he  died  in  disgrace  ? — and  that  may  have — nay, 
must  have,  turned  his  heart.  0  Boussac !  how  am  I 
ever  to  repay  you  ?  Without  your  thought  and  exer- 
tions what  should  I  have  been  now  ?  "  and  he  shuddered 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh  !   la !   la ! "  said  Boussac,  "  never  mind  about 


284  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

me.  The  question  is  now  what  do  you  intend  to  do  in 
the  future?" 

"  Do ! "  exclaimed  St.  Georges.  "  Do !  Why,  that 
which  I  returned  to  France  to  do,  fought  against  France 
for — obtain  my  child.  Boussac,  where  is  that  woman 
now?" 

"  Woman  ! — what  woman  ?  " 

"  Ah !  Boussac,  do  not  joke.  You  know  very  well 
to  what  woman  I  refer.  That  young  tigress — in  her 
way  almost  as  vile  as  the  woman  Louvigny  ! — the  woman 
who  stole  my  child." 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Mademoiselle  de  Eoquemaure !  That  is  the 
name.  Oh  Boussac !  you  have  given  me  more  than  my 
life,  far  more.  The  power  to  wrench  my  child  away 
from  her  keeping,  to  stand  before  her  a  freed  man,  the 
king's  pardon  in  my  hand,  and  tax  her  with  her  treach- 
ery." 

"  You  will  do  that  ?  " 

"  Do  it !  What  am  I  going  to  Troyes  for — to- 
night?" 

"  Ay,  true !  True !  What  are  you  going  to  Troyes 
for  ?  Yet  I  should  have  thought,  if  you  recover  the 
child,  it  is  enough.  Why — say — bitter  words  ?  " 

"  Boussac,  you — but,  there,  you  are  not  a  father  ;  you 
cannot  understand  all  I  have  suffered  in  these  four 
years  past.  Why !  man,  the  galleys,  my  exile,  the  death 
that  yawned  for  me  this  morning,  were  easier  than  the 
loss  of  my  little  one.  And,  with  her  dying  brother's 
own  confession  ringing  in  my  ears  still,  as  it  will  ring 
when  I  stand  before  her  to-morrow,  as  I  hope,  you  ask 
me  what  need  I  have  to  reproach  her — to  titter  bitter 
words?" 

The  mousquetaire   shrugged    his   shoulders;    then 


"I   WILL  NEVER  FORGIVE  HER."  285 

he  muttered  something  about  the  recovery  of  the 
child  being  everything,  and  that  reproaches  brought 
little  satisfaction  with  them;  and  after  that  he  again 
asked  St.  Georges  when  he  meant  to  set  out  for 
Troves  ? 

"  To-night,  I  tell  you — to-night.  Yet  " — and  he 
paused  bewildered — "  I — I  have  no  money.  Not  enough 
to  get  me  a  horse,  at  least.  They  have  given  me  back 
all  they  took  from  me  after  my  condemnation,  but  there 
were  only  a  few  guineas  left." 

"  Where  is  the  horse  you  rode  to  Paris  on  when  De 
Mortemart  brought  you  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  St.  Georges,  "  a  good  horse — 
though,  alas !  at  a  moment  when  my  life  was  in  danger 
and  a  horse  alone  could  save  me,  I — I  stole  it.  Oh,  if  I 
can  but  get  that  again  !  " 

"  Why  not?  It  is  doubtless  in  the  stables  behind  the 
cours  criminel,  where  the  guard  stable  theirs." 

It  was  there ;  so  that  difficulty  was  soon  solved,  no 
objection  being  offered  by  the  authorities  to  giving  up 
the.  property  of  a  prisoner  who  was  so  distinguished  as 
to  be  acquitted  by  the  king's  order  an  hour  before  his 
execution;  and  then,  when  St.  Georges  had  recovered  it, 
he  announced  his  intention  of  at  once  setting  forth.  He 
was  impatient  to  be  gone  now  he  was  so  near;  he  calcu- 
lated that  by  midday  on  the  morrow  he  would  have 
forced  from  Aurelie  de  Rouquemaure  a  confession  of 
what  she  had  done  with  Dorine.  She  was  at  Troyes  he 
knew;  Boussac,  who  professed  himself  well  acquainted 
with  her  movements,  having  told  him  that  such  was  the  * 
case. 

"  She  is  much  at  court  now,"  he  said  ;  "  I  often  see 
her.  And  she  must  be  back  at  Troyes  by  now — I  mean 
— that — she  has  been  absent  from  there  of  late.  But— 


286  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

but  she  would  be  back  by  now — she — told  me — she 
was " 

"  What  ? "  asked  St.  Georges,  looking  at  him  and 
wondering  why  he  seemed  so  incoherent  about  the  wom- 
an's movements ;  wondering  also  how  he  came  to  know 
so  much  about  them,  especially  her  recent  ones — "  what 
did  she  tell  you  when  last  you  saw  her?" 

"  That — she  has  been  paying  a  visit — to — to — assist 
a  friend — but " 

"Her -friendship  seems  as  strong  as  her  hate — and 
greed,"  muttered  St.  Georges. 

"  But  that,"  Boussac  continued,  still  floundering  a 
good  deal  in  his  speech,  "she  would  be  at  the  manoir 
last  night — yes,  last  night." 

"So.  Then  she  will  doubtless  be  there  to-morrow 
also ;  she  will  require  rest  after  rendering  her  friend  so 
much  assistance.  I  shall  find  her  there." 

"  We  shall  find  her  there,"  Boussac  answered.  "  I  am 
going  with  you." 

"  You  !  Why  ?  "  Then  he  laughed— for  the  first  time 
for  many  a  day.  *'  Do  you  think  I  am  in  danger  now, 
with  Louis's  protection  in  my  pocket,  or,"  and  his  brow 
darkened  a  little, "  do  you  fear  that  she  is  in  danger  from 
me?" 

"  Mon  ami,"  Boussac  replied,  "  I  think  neither  of 
those  things.  The  king's  permission  has  made  you  safe 
— your  manhood  makes  her  so.  Yet,  let  me  ride  with 
you.  Remember" — and  again  he  halted  in  his  speech, 
as  though  seeking  for  a  suitable  reason  for  accompany- 
ing him — "  we  rode  together  when  la  petite  was  about 
to  bejost  to  you;  let  us  do  so  now  when,  I  hope  most 
fervently,  she  is  about  to  be  restored  to  you.  And,  my 
friend,  I  have  obtained  leave — we  Mousquetaires  are 
always  fortunate  in  getting  that.  Do  not  deny  me  ! " 


"I   WILL  NEVER  FORGIVE  HER."  287 

"  Deny  you ! — you  !  The  man  who  saved  me !  I 
am  an  ingrate  even  to  question  you,"  and  he  seized 
the  black  gantleted  hand  of  the  other  and  wrung  it 
hard. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said  or  done  ere 
they  set  out — or  only  one  thing.  Boussac  had  men- 
tioned that  he  had  a  friend,  a  dragoon  officer,  who  was 
proceeding  to  La  Hogue  to  join  his  regiment  which  was 
still  there  under  Bellefond's  command,  and  by  him  St. 
Georges  sent  twenty  pistoles  to  be  given  to  Dubois,  the 
man  who  owned  the  horse  which  saved  his  life.  He  bor- 
rowed the  money  of  Boussac,  described  the  inn  where  he 
had  seized  the  animal,  and  then  mounted  it  for  the  first 
time  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction.  "  'Tis  a  good  beast," 
he  said,  "  and  has  done  me  loyal  service ;  also  it  has  well 
replaced  another  good  one — that  on  which  I  rode  from 
Pontarlier  to  Paris  and  never  saw  again.  How  long  ago 
that  seems,  Bonssac  !•" 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  other,  "  but  it  was  winter  then 
and  the  clouds  were  lowering  over  your  life  and  her 
you  loved — now  'tis  summer,  and  all  is  well  with 
you." 

"  I  pray  God  !    I  have  suffered  my  share." 

All  through  that  summer  night  they  rode — resting 
their  horses  occasionally  at  country  inns,  then  going  on 
again,  though  slowly,  and  at  dawn  changing  them  for 
others  and  leaving  them  to  rest  until  they  should  return 
that  way.  And  so  at  last  they  neared  Troyes,  passing 
through  the  little  town  of  Nogent,  and  seeing,  ten  miles 
off,  the  spire  of  the  cathedral  glistening  in  the  rays  of 
the  bright  sun. 

"  She  will  not  know  me,"  St.  Georges  had  said  more 
than  once,  as  he  thought  of  Dorine.  "  She  was  a  babe 
w,hen  I  lost  her,  now  she  is  a  child  possessing  speech  and 


288  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

intelligence.  May  God  grant  it  is  not  too  late ;  that  she 
is  not  too  old  yet  to  learn  to  love  me  !  " 

"  Courage  !  mon  ami,  courage ! "  exclaimed  Boussac, 
repeating  a  formula  he  had  adopted  from  the  first;  "  all 
must  be  well." 

But — it  was  natural — as  they  approached  their  desti- 
nation, the  goal  from  which  St.  Georges  hoped  so  much, 
his  nervousness  increased  terribly  and  he  began  to  spec- 
ulate as  to  whether  the  child  might  not  after  all  be 
dead ;  if,  perhaps,  she  might  not  have  lain  in  her  little 
grave  for  long.  "And  then  how  will  it  be  with  me, 
Boussac  ?  Oh !  if  she  is  dead  how  shall  I  reckon  with 
the  woman  who  possessed  herself  of  her  ?  " 

"  Courage ! "  again  repeated  the  mousquetaire,  "  I  do 
not  believe  she  is  dead.  And  if  mademoiselle  did  seize 
upon  her — well,  she  is  a  woman !  a  better  nurse  than  the 
bishop's  servant." 

"  Ah  !  the  bishop's  servant !  That  too  has  to  be  ex- 
plained. What  was  he  doing  with  her?  I  have  won- 
dered all  these  years — De  Roquemaure's  dying  words 
told  nothing.  *  He  had  got  her  safe,'  he  gasped  at  the 
last.  But  why  he  ?  Why  he !  Oh  !  shall  I  ever  know 
all?" 

"  Ere  long,  I  hope,  my  friend,"  said  Boussac,  "  ere 
long  now." 

As  he  spoke,  they  mounted  the  last  hill  that  guarded 
the  capital  of  Champagne  and  approached  the  summit. 
When  there,  they  would  be  able  to  look  down  upon  the 
old  city — nay,  more,  from  there  they  would  scarce  be  a 
musket  shot  from  the  manoir,  surrounded  now  by  its 
ripening  vineyards  and  its  woods.  She,  the  kidnapper 
of  his  child,  would  be  in  his  grasp,  must  answer  his  de- 
mand ! 

Upon  the  summit  of  that  hill  still  stood  the  gibbet 


"I  WILL  NEVER  FORGIVE   HER."  289 

on  which  the  peasant  woman's  husband  had  swung,  but 
the  body  was  gone — long  since,  doubtless — and  the  gal- 
lows tree  was  bare.  "  Perhaps,"  said  St.  Georges,  "  the 
poor  thing  obtained  him  decent  burial  at  last.  I  hope 
so."  Then,  seeing  a  peasant  coming  along  the  road,  he 
spoke  to  him,  and  asked  him  what  had  become  of  the 
corpse  that  hung  there  four  years  ago?  The  fellow 
looked  up  at  him  sullenly  enough  and  stared  hard  for 
some  moments  ;  then  he  said  : 

"  You  are  not  De  Eoquemaure  ?  " 

"  Nay." 

"  What  affair  is  it  then  of  yours  ?  " 

St.  Georges  explained  briefly  to  him  how  he  had  met 
the  dead  man's  wife  and  pitied  her,  and  asked  where 
she  was. 

"  Mad,"  the  man  said.  "  Quite  mad.  Her  brother 
keeps  her."  Then  he  muttered :  "  A  curse  on  the  De 
Koquemaures,  and  on  him  above  all !  His  father  was 
bad  ;  he  is  worse." 

"You  need  curse  him  no  more,"  St.  Georges  an- 
swered ;  "  he  is  dead  ! " 

"  Dead  is  he  ?  Then  he  was  the  last ;  the  woman 
counts  not.  Dead  !  Oh,  that  she  whom  he  injured  so 
could  understand  it !  Dead,  thank  God !  I  would  it 
were  so  with  all  aristocrats !  France  has  suffered  long." 

A  hundred  years  almost  were  to  elapse  ere  the  peas- 
ant's hopes  were  to  be  partly  realized,  and  others  like 
the  De  Roquemaures  to  meet  their  reward ;  but  none 
foresaw  it  in  those  days.  Later  the  clouds  gathered, 
but  even  then  the  fury  of  the  coming  storm  was  not 
perceived. 

"  Give  her  this,"  said  St.  Georges,  putting  some  of 
his  few  remaining  pieces  in  his  hand,  he  having  pro- 
vided himself  with  French  gold  for  his  English  guineas. 


290  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

"  Or  give  it  to  the  brother  who  has  charge  of  her.  I, 
too,  have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  De  Koquemaures." 

"  And  you  forgive  ?  "  glancing  up  from  the  pistoles 
in  his  hand  to  the  dark,  stern  face  above  him.  "  You 
forgive  ?  " 

"  Not  yet ! " 

Then  he  urged  on  his  horse  again,  Boussac  follow- 
ing him. 

"  But  you  will,  my  friend,  you  will,"  he  said,  as  they 
rode  down  the  slope.  "  In  the  name  of  the  good  God 
who  forgives  all,  forgive  her,  I  implore  you  ! " 

"  Forgive  her  ?  I  will  never  forgive  her !  I  have 
forgiven  that  other  who  lies  in  a  thousand  pieces  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  but  her  reckoning  is  yet  to  come. 
She  stole  my  child  from  me,  she  lied  to  me  in  Paris, 
sympathized  with  me  on  my  loss  when,  at  the  time,  she 
knew  where  that  child  was ;  drove  me  to  draw  on  Lou- 
vois,  and  thereby  to  my  ruin.  I  will  never  forgive  her ! 
And  if  she  now  refuses  to  restore  the  child,  then — 
But  enough  !  Come,"  and  shaking  his  horse's  reins  he 
rode  down  the  vine-clad  roads  to  the  front  of  the 
manoir. 

It  frowned  as  before  on  the  slope  below  it,  presented 
on  this  bright  summer  morning  as  grim,  impassable  a 
front  as  on  that  winter  night  when  first  he  drew  rein 
outside  it ;  beyond  the  huge  hatchment  now  nailed  on 
its  front  in  memory  of  the  late  marquise  nothing  was 
changed.  It  looked  to  St.  Georges's  eyes  a  fitting  place 
to  enshroud  the  evil  doings  of  the  family  he  had  hated 
so  bitterly,  and  of  the  one  representative  now  left  whom 
he  hated  too. 

Seizing  the  horn  as  he  had  seized  it  long  ago  in  the 
murkinesa  of  that  winter  night,  he  blew  upon  it  and 
then  waited  to  be  answered.  lie  had  not  long  to  do  so ; 


AT  LAST.  291 

a  moment  later  the  old  warder  who  had  once  before 
opened  the  small  door  under  the  tourelle  stood  before 
him. 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  de  Koquemaure  in  her  house  ?  "  he 
asked  sternly,  while  Boussac,  sitting  his  horse  behind 
him,  uttered  no  word. 

"  She  is  in  her  house,  monsieur." 

"  You  know  me.  I  have  been  here  before.  Say  I 
have  ridden  express  from  Paris  to  see  her  and  must  do 
so  at  once." 

"  I  will  say  so,  monsieur.     Be  pleased  to  enter." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

AT  LAST. 

IT  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  been  expected  from 
his  appearance  being  received  in  so  matter-of-fact  a  way. 
Yet,  he  reflected,  why  should  it  be  otherwise?  Aurelie 
de  Eoquemaure  could  scarce  know  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him  of  late — above  all  could  not  be  aware  that 
he  had  become  possessed  of  the  information  that  she 
was  the  kidnapper  of  Dorine. 

He  had,  however,  but  little  time  for  reflection  since 
Boussac  was  by  his  side,  and,  when  they  dismounted 
from  their  horses,  had  followed  him  into  the  large 
sombre  hall  to  which  the  old  servant  had  led  the  way. 
Yet,  when  the  man  had  gone  to  seek  his  mistress,  the 
latter  took  one  more  opportunity  to  plead  that  he  should 
be  gentle  with  her. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  "remember,  I  beseech  you, 
that  you  have  but  her  brother's  word  for  what  you  sus- 


292  IN  THE  DAY  OF  ADVERSITY. 

pect  her  of ;  he  was  a  villain,  he  might  have  lied  in  his 
last  moments  for  some  reason — perhaps  did  not  even 
think  those  last  moments  were  in  truth  at  hand ;  might 
have  hoped  to  escape  after  all  and  profit  by  the  lie. 
Remember !  Oh,  remember ! " 

"  I  will  remember/'  St.  Georges  said.  Then,  with 
one  glance  at  Boussac,  he  added,  "  But  the  villain  did 
not  lie  then  !  " 

The  domestic  came  back,  and  St.  Georges  learned 
that  the  hour  for  his  explanation,  long  sought  and  med- 
itated upon,  was  at  hand.  "  His  mistress  would  see 
monsieur,"  he  said.  He  would  conduct  him  to  her. 

In  the  same  room  where  he  had  first  set  eyes  on 
Aurelie  de  Roquemaure  he  saw  her  again — the  old  man 
ushering  him  in  and  then  swiftly  leaving  the  room. 
They  were  face  to  face  at  last !  As  it  had  been  before, 
so  it  was  now — her  beauty  as  she  rose  on  his  entrance 
was  strikingly  apparent,  compelled  regard.  And  the 
four  years  that  had  passed  since  that  first  meeting  had 
done  much  to  increase,  to  ripen  that  beauty ;  instead  of 
the  budding  girl  it  was  a  stately  woman  who  now  met 
his  eyes.  And  the  contrast  between  them  was  great, 
was  all  to  her  advantage  so  far  as  exterior  matters  were 
concerned  :  he  travel-stained,  worn,  and  with  now  in  his 
long  hair  some  streaks  of  gray ;  she  fresh  and  beautiful 
in  the  long  black  lace  dress  she  wore,  a  rose  in  her 
bosom,  her  hair  undisguised  by  any  wig  and  swept  back 
into  a  huge  knot  behind.  "  How  beautiful  she  is  ! "  he 
thought,  as  he  gave  her  one  glance,  "  yet  how  base  and 
contemptible ! " 

With  a  swift  movement  she  came  toward  him  from 
the  further  end  of  the  room,  her  hands  extended  and 
her  eyes  sparkling,  exclaiming  as  she  advanced :  "  You 
are  free !  you  are  free ! "  But  her  greeting  met  with  no 


AT  LAST.  293 

response  from  him.  Could  she  have  expected  it,  he 
wondered  ?  Then  he  stepped  back  and  coldly  said  : 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle  de  Eoquemaure,  I  am  free," 
while  to  himself  he  said  :  "  So  she  knew  that  too.  That 
I  was  trapped !  God !  That  womankind  can  be  so 
base ! " 

Staggered  at  the  coldness  of  his  first  words,  affronted 
at  his  refusal  to  take  her  outstretched  hands,  she  drew 
back  and  looked  at  him  calmly.  Then  she  said,  quietly, 
"  I  rejoice  to  know  it,"  and,  pausing,  looked  at  him 
again. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Eoquemaure,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
not  ridden  here  from  Paris,  from  a  prison  which  at  one 
time  I  scarce  thought  to  leave  except  for  the  wheel,  to 
interchange  idle  compliments.  I  have  come  here  with 
one  set  purpose,  to  learn  what  you  have  done  with  my 
child — the  child  you  stole  from  the  Bishop  of  Lodeve's 
servant  on  the  morning  that  your  servant  gave  that  man 
his  death  wound." 

His  eyes  were  intent  upon  her  as  he  spoke,  watching 
her  eagerly.  Yet,  to  his  surprise,  she  neither  started 
nor  paled  at  his  accusation.  Instead,  she  said  quietly : 

"You  know  that?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  know  it." 

"  And  your  informant  was ?  " 

"Your  brother,  or  half-brother.  With  his  dying 
words." 

"  He  was  slain  at  La  Hogue ;  ah,  yes !  you  were 
there  !  I  remember.  Was  it  you  who  slew  him  ?  " 

"  No ;  but,  pardon  me,  it  is  not  about  Monsieur  de 
Roquemaure  that  I  have  come  here.  The  De  Roque- 
maures  and  I  have  had  enough  intercourse."  And  now 
he  saw  that  he  had  touched  her,  since  she  grew  pale  as 
death.  "  There  will  be  no  need  of  any  further  when 


294  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

once  my  child  is  restored  to  me.  Mademoiselle,  I  have 
come  to  demand  that  child  of  you.  Where  is  she — what 
have  you  done  with  her  ?  " 

For  answer  she  advanced  to  a  bell  rope,  and,  pulling 
it,  said  to  the  servant  when  he  appeared,  "  Send  Made- 
moiselle de  Vannes  to  me.  " 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Vannes  ! ?'  he  exclaimed,  "  Made- 
moiselle de  Vannes !  You  call  her  that — you  know " 

"  I  know." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a  gesture  of 
bewilderment,  then  said,  "  And  you  keep  her  here  ?  " 

"  She  is  here,  monseigneur,"  as  the  door  opened  once 
more ;  "  here  is  your  child." 

Even  as  she  spoke  a  bright-haired  child  ran  into  the 
room  and,  rushing  toward  Mademoiselle  de  Roquemaure, 
caught  her  by  the  hands  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
dress,  while  she  whispered  : 

"  Aurelie,  dear  sister  Aurelie,  why  do  you  send  for 
me  now  when  I  am  so  hard  at  work  with  Pere  Antoine  ? 
And  who  is  this  stranger?  What  does  he  want?" 

"Who  is  this  stranger?"  At  those  words  St. 
Georges's  heart  gave  a  throb — he  said  afterward  that  he 
thought  it  would  cease  to  beat — and  the  room  swam 
round  with  him.  He  had  found  the  child  of  many  long- 
ings— and  he  was  a  stranger!  A  moment  later  he  heard 
Aurelie  speaking. 

"  Dorine,  this  is  no  stranger.  Give  him  your  hand  ; 
kiss  him." 

Reluctantly  the  child  advanced  to  where  he  stood, 
and  obeyed  her  ra  so  far  that  she  held  out  her  hand ; 
but,  either  from  coyness  or  some  other  cause,  she  did 
not  offer  to  lift  up  her  face  for  him  to  kiss.  And  he, 
standing  there,  looking  down  on  her,  felt  as  if  his  heart 
would  break.  Then,  overcome  by  all  that  was  struggling 


AT  LAST.  295 

within  his  bosom,  he  dropped  upon  one  knee  beside  the 
child  and  drew  her  toward  him,  she  seeming  terrified  at 
his  embrace. 

"  Ah,  little  one ! "  he  said,  "  if  I  tell  you  how  I  have 
longed  for  this  hour,  prayed  for  it  to  come,  surely  you 
will  say  some  word  of  greeting  to  me.  Dorine,  do  you 
not  know  me?  Dorine,  Dorine ! " 

For  answer,  the  child,  still  seeming  frightened,  drew 
further  away  from  him  and  whispered  that  she  did  not 
know  him,  that  she  desired  to  go  to  Aurelie. 

"You  love  her?"  he  whispered,  too,  for  npw  his 
voice  seemed  to  be  failing  him — "  you  love  her  ?  You 
are  happy  with  her?  I  hoped  you  would  have  come 
with  me " 

"  With  you ! " — and  now  the  tears  stood  in  the  child's 
eyes  as  she  shrank  still  further  from  him — "  and  leave 
Aurelie?" 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  almost  fiercely,  his  despair 
driving  him  nearly  to  distraction.  "Why  not?  Who, 
is  she  ?  What  share  has  she  in  you  ?  You  are  mine, 
mine,  mine  !  0  child,  I  am  your  father ! "  And  sud- 
denly overwrought  by  his  emotions,  by  the  broken 
hopes  he  had  cherished,  the  vanishing  of  the  future  to 
which  he  had  looked  forward,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
turned  to  Mademoiselle  de  Koquemaure.  "  I  see  it  all," 
he  said;  "understand  all.  Your  brother  uttered  the 
truth  at  last.  You  stole  my  child  because  she  stood  in 
your  way ;  you  won  her  love  afterward  because " 

"  Stop ! "  exclaimed  Aurelie  de  Koquemaure,  and  as 
she  spoke  she  drew  herself  to  her  full  height  and  con- 
fronted him,  while  the  child,  trembling  by  her  side, 
could  not  understand  why  her  sister  had  changed  so. 
"  Stop  and  hear  the  truth  since  you  force  me  to  tell  it. 
I  stole  your  child  because  in  that  way  alone  could  her 


296  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

life  be  saved,  her  safety  at  least  be  assured.  My  brother 
would — God  forgive  him  ! — have  hidden  her  away  for- 
ever; even  then,  as  I  learned  afterward,  the  bishop's 
servant  had  stolen  her  from  the  inn  in  the  city  and  was 
hastening  to  meet  him.  There  was  no  time  to  lose  ;  it 
was  that  man's  life  or  hers,  and — and — I  acted  by  my 
mother's  orders.  Now,  Monseigneur  le  Due " 

But  he  whom  she  addressed  thus  had  fallen  on  his 
knees  before  her,  had  endeavoured  to  seize  her  hand, 
and,  failing  that,  was  kissing  the  hem  of  her  dress. 

"  Forgive,  forgive,  forgive  ! "  he  moaned  ;  "  I  have 
been  blind — blind  !  Let  me  go  in  peace  and  offend  no 
more.  She  is  yours,  not  mine ;  yours  by  your  womanly 
grace  and  mercy — the  love  she  has  to  give  belongs  to 
you  by  right  of  your  womanly  mercy.  Better  that  I 
had  died  in  Paris  yesterday  than  live  to  repay  you  as  I 
have ! " 

But  now  to  the  child's  mind  there  seemed  to  come 
some  gleam  of  light  as  to  what  was  passing  between  the 
stranger  and  her  mother ;  the  words,  "  Better  I  had 
died  in  Paris,"  awakened  her  intelligence. 

"  AurSlie,"  she  cried,  "  was  this  the  gentleman  whom 
you  hurried  to  Paris  to  save  ?  " 

"  To  save  !  "  St.  Georges  exclaimed,  "  to  save !  My 
God !  do  I  owe  my  life  to  you  as  well  ?  " 

And  Aurelie — her  eyes  cast  down,  her  frame  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot — murmured  :  "  I  could  not  let 
you  die,  knowing  what  I  did,  knowing  the  evil  the  De 
Roquemaures  had  wrought  you.  When  Monsieur  Bous- 
sac  sent  me  word  you  were  doomed,  I  determined  to 
tell  the  king  all." 

So  she  had  saved  him !  She,  whom  for  four  years 
he  had  regarded  as  a  treacherous  enemy,  had  saved  not 


AT  LAST.  297 

only  his  child  but  him.  And  ere  the  day  was  over  he 
had  learned  all  that  she  had  done  besides. 

She  told  her  tale  to  St.  Georges  and  to  Boussac  as 
they  sat  in  the  grounds  of  the  old  manoir,  and  made  at 
last  all  clear  to  the  former  that  for  so  long  had  been 
dark  and  impenetrable. 

"  The  man  who  was  your  worst  enemy,"  she  said, 
"  was  that  vile  Bishop  of  Lodeve  ;  the  next  was  Louvois 
— for  without  them  my  unhappy  brother  would  have 
known  nothing  and  could  have  attempted  no  harm 
against  you.  He  regarded  himself  as  the  heir  of  the 
Due  de  Vannes,  and  did  not  know  of  your  existence 
until  Phelypeaux  told  him  of  it.  And  at  the  same  time 
the  bishop  said  that  he  had  another  formidable  rival  in 
the  Romish  Church " 

"  The  Romish  Church  !  " 

"  Yes,  your  father  had  become  converted  to  it  and  was 
received  into  it  by  Phelypeaux  himself,  the  example  of 
Turenne  having  much  influenced  him.  At  first,  on  be- 
ing received,  he  had,  with  the  fervour  of  many  converts, 
bequeathed  half  of  his  great  fortune  to  that  Church, 
the  other  half  remaining  a  bequest  to  his  heir — my 
father,  and  after  him  my  unhappy  half-brother.  But, 
ere  he  set  out  on  the  campaign  in  which  both  he  and 
Turenne  were  to  lose  their  lives,  he  wrote  to  the  bishop 
and  told  him  that  he  had  a  son  by  an  unacknowledged 
marriage ;  that  he  could  not  deem  it  right  that  he  should 
be  deprived  of  what  was  properly  his,  and  that  he  had 
made  a  will  leaving  all  his  property  to  him.  Then  the 
search  for  you  began,  though  my  brother  was  not  con- 
cerned in  it,  being  still  a  child.  But  the  bishop  sought 
high  and  low,  first  for  proofs  of  the  marriage  and  next 
to  discover  where  the  duke's  son  was.  And  Louvois 
helped  him  because  he  had  hated  your  father,  who 
20 


IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

despised  him,  as  Turenne  and  many  of  the  other  mar- 
shals did." 

"  But  you,  mademoiselle,"  exclaimed  St.  Georges, 
"how  do  you  know  all  this?  And  did  you  know  it 
when  we  first  met  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  but  my  mother  suspected.  By 
this  time  my  brother  had  heard  something  from  Louvois, 
who  had  found  out  all  when  the  effects  of  the  Due  de 
Vannes,  which  he  had  taken  with  him  on  his  last 
campaign — his  private  papers  and  other  things — were 
brought  back  to  Paris  by  the  Comte  de  Lorge,  Turenue's 
nephew;  had  discovered  that  the  son  was  named  St. 
Georges,  his  English  mother's  name  having  been  St. 
George,  but  could  not  discover  where  the  duke  had 
bestowed  him.  Nor  did  he  discover  it  until  long  after- 
ward, when,  happening  to  once  more  refer  to  the  papers 
brought  by  the  comte,  he  discovered  one  he  had  over- 
looked addressed  to  my  mother;  and  he  read  it  and 
discovered  thereby  that  the  officer,  who  was  serving  in 
the  Regiment  of  the  Nivernois,  under  the  name  of  St. 
Georges,  was,  in  truth,  the  lawful  Due  de  Vannes. 
Then  in  his  cold,  brutal  manner  he  informed  the  bishop 
where  the  man  was  who  stood  in  the  light  of  the 
Church's  gains,  and  alas !  he  told  that  other  who  ex- 
pected so  much,  my  unhappy  half-brother.  Also  he 
told  them  both  that  this  man  was  to  be  transferred  to 
another  regiment,  and  that  he  would  set  out  from  Pon- 
tarlier  on  a  certain  night.  They  might  care  to  see  him, 
he  continued  ;  therefore  he  should  receive  orders  to  call 
on  the  bishop  at  his  family  residence  in  Dijon,  where  he 
happened  to  be  then,  and  on  my  brother  in  this  house 
— though,  not  to  arouse  any  suspicions,  he  was  to  pre- 
sent himself  as  a  visitor  to  my  mother.  Also  he  told 
them  that  which  neither  dreamed  of  until  then — namely, 


AT  LAST.  299 

that  Monsieur  St.  Georges  was  a  widower,  but  had  a 
child  whom  he  would  doubtless  endeavour  to  bring  with 
him.  You  must  be  able,"  she  concluded,  "to  under- 
stand the  rest." 

"  Ay ! "  said  the  Due  de  Vannes,  "  I  can  understand. 
Only  still,  mademoiselle,  I  cannot  conceive  how  you 
know  all  this." 

"  Yet  the  answer  is  simple.  By  one  of  those  mar- 
vellous coincidences  which  happen  as  often  in  our  every- 
day life  as  in  the  romances  of  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery, 
or  the  fables  of  Monsieur  de  La  Fontaine,  my  brother 
had  once  asked  my  mother  if  she  had  ever  heard  of  you, 
if  your  assumed  name  was  known  to  her ;  the  bishop 
supposing  that  she  was  greedy  as  he  himself,  had  sent 
to  warn  her  that  you  were  on  your  way  to  Paris,  and 
that  it  would  be  well  if  she  could  recognise  in  you  any 
traces  of  your  father  and  would  send  a  word  to  Louvois 
saying  whether  she  thought  you  were  the  man.  But  he 
overreached  himself,"  Mademoiselle  de  Eoquemaure 
added  ;  "  my  mother's  sympathies  were  with  the  son  of 
him  she  had  once  loved  so  dearly,  not  with  him  who 
was  the  son  of  the  man  she  had  married.  And  as  for 
Phelypeaux — she  despised  him  !  " 

"  Heaven  bless  her ! "  exclaimed  the  duke.  "  Yet 
still  I  know  not  how  she  unravelled  all — how  found  out 
my  birthright — my  mother's  name." 

"  That,  too,  is  simple.  Louvois  died  suddenly,  as 
you  know,  in  disgrace  with  the  king.  Some  said  by 
poison  administered  by  himself,  some  from  fear  of  the 
king's  displeasure.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  his 
son,  Barbezieux,  was  not  allowed  to  touch  any  of  his 
papers  and  all  were  handed  to  Louis  intact.  He  con- 
fided them  to  De  Chamlay,  who  refused  Louvois's  va- 
cant post  as  minister  of  war  but  consented  to  go  over 


3QO  IN   THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

his  state  affairs,  and  in  those  papers  he  found  all ;  a 
copy  of  your  father's  letter  to  the  bishop,  the  letter  to 
my  mother  which  had  never  been  delivered — telling  her 
everything  and  begging  her  to  see  you  righted — his  will 
and  his  marriage  certificate,  as  well  as  that  of  your 
birth.  Monseigneur,  I  have  them  upstairs — I  showed 
them  to  the  king  the  night  before  last — they  are  now  at 
your  disposal." 

Boussac  had  strolled  away  ere  the  narrative  was  done 
— his  delicacy  prompting  him  to  leave  them  alone — 
and  as  she  concluded  the  Duke  de  Vannes  dropped 
on  his  knee  by  her  side,  and,  taking  her  hand,  mur- 
mured : 

" Forgive,  pardon  me!  Bring  yourself  to  say  you 
forgive  the  evil  I  have  thought,  and  let  me  go.  Un- 
worthy as  I  am  to  ask  it,  yet,  if  you  can,  forgive  me  and 
never  more  in  this  world  will  I  offend  your  sight.  And, 
for  expiation,  I  give  my  child  to  you — you  who  have 
been  so  much  more  to  her  than  I." 

But  Aurelie  de  Roquemaure,  bending  toward  the 
kneeling  man,  said :  "  Nay.  Why  say  that  I  forgive — I, 
who  have  naught  to  pardon  ?  Only — do  not  go !  Stay, 
rather,  and  win  the  love  of  the  child  whom  you  have 
loved  so  much  through  all  your  grief,  through  your  long 
separation." 


CONCLUSION". 


THE  Peace  of  Ryswick  brought  about  many  changes 
in  both  France  and  England.  It  opened  each  country 
to  the  other — for  a  time,  though  but  a  short  one ! — it 
enabled  the  refugees  of  each  to  return  to  their  own 


CONCLUSION.  301 

lauds,  and  for  a  few  years  England  and  her  neighbours 
were  not  at  open  enmity. 

Yet  one  refugee  there  was  who  never  returned  to 
France,  but  who,  in  the  country  of  his  adoption,  and 
with  his  beautiful  wife  by  his  side  and  at  his  knee  his 
children,  took  no  part  in  the  strife  between  the  two 
lands  or  in  their  politics.  Instead,  he  dwelt  upon  the 
estate  he  had  bought  in  the  heart  of  Surrey — with  the 
money  he  had  realized  by  the  sale  of  his  property  in 
France — and  there,  a  prosperous  gentleman,  passed  life 
easily  and  well. 

But  there  was  no  longer  any  Due  de  Vannes  in 
France — that  old  title  was  never  revived  after  the  death 
of  the  late  owner  of  it  on  the  plains  of  Salzbach — and 
in  Surrey  the  handsome  grave  gentleman,  who  was 
known  to  be  a  wealthy  emigre  from  across  the  Chan- 
nel, was  invariably  spoken  of  and  addressed  as  Mr.  St. 
George. 

And  he  was  very  happy  thus ! — happy  when  he 
thought  of  all  the  dangers  he  had  passed  through  safely 
— though  sometimes  in  the  night  his  wife  would  hear 
him  mutter  in  his  sleep,  "  At  dawn,  at  dawn  ! "  and  know 
that  in  his  dreams  his  mind  had  gone  back  to  that  sum- 
mer morning  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  when,  putting  out 
her  hand,  she  would  softly  wake  him;  happy,  too, 
in  his  children — in  the  one  whose  love  had  come 
back  to  him  as  he  had  prayed  so  long  it  might ;  hap- 
py in  those  others  whom  God  had  sent  him :  in  the 
bright,  handsome  boy  who  bore  his  own  name ;  and  in 
the  delicate,  beautiful  girl  who  bore  her  mother's — 
Aurelie. 

And  happy  beyond  all  thought  and  early  expectation 
when  she,  that  mother,  was  by  his  side,  or  when,  rising 
from  her  place  near  him,  and  stroking  back  the  long 


302  IN  THE  DAY  OP  ADVERSITY. 

hair  from  his  forehead — now  streaked  with  silver — and 
kissing  him,  would  murmur  : 

" '  If  thou  faint  in  the  day  of  adversity,  thy  strength 
is  small,"'  and  then  falling  on  her  knees  beside  him 
would  whisper,  "  But  your  strength  was  great,  my  love, 
and  in  that  strength  you  were  able  to  endure." 


THE   END. 


APPLETONS'   TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 

PUBLISHED    SEMIMONTHLY. 


1.  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louis  ULBACH. 

2.  Eve.    A  Novel.    By  8.  BAKING-GOULD. 

3.  For  Fifteen  Years.    A  Sequel  to  The  Steel  Hammer.   By  Louis  ULBACH. 

4.  A  Counsel  of  Perfection.   A  Novel.   By  LUCAS  MALET. 

5.  The  Deemster.    A  Romance.    By  HALL  CAINE. 

5k-  The  Bondman.    (New  edition.)    By  HALL  CAINE. 

6.  A  Virginia  Inheritance.    By  EDMUND  PENDLETON. 

7.  Ninette :  An  Idyll  of  Provence.    By  the  author  of  Vera. 

8.  "  The  Right  Honourable..'1''  By  JUSTIN  MCCABTHY  and  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PEAED. 

9.  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

10.  Mrs.  Larimer :  A  Study  in  Black  and  White.    By  LUCAS  MALET. 

11.  The  Elect  Lady.    By  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 

12.  The  Mystery  of  the  "  Ocean  Star."    By  W.  CLABK  RUSSELL. 

13.  Aristocracy.    A  Novel. 

14.  A  Recoiling  Vengeance.    By  FRANK  BABBETT.    With  Illustrations. 

15.  The   Secret  of  Fontaine-la-  Oroix.    By  MARGARET  FIELD. 

16.  The  Master  of  Rathketty.    By  HAWLEY  SMART. 

17.  Donovan :  A  Modern  Englishman.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

18.  This  Mortal  Coil.    By  GRANT  ALLEN. 

19.  A  Fair  Emigrant.    By  ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 

20.  The  Apostate.    By  ERNEST  DAUDET. 

21.  Raleigh  WeMgate ;  or,  Epimenides  in  Maine.    By  HELEN  KENDKICK  JOHNSON. 

22.  Arius  the  Libyan.    A  Romance  of  the  Primitive  Church. 

23.  Constance,  and  Galoot's  Rival.    By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 

24.  We  Two.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

25.  A  Dreamer  of  Dreams.    By  the  author  of  Thoth. 

26.  The  Ladies'  Gallery.    By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  and  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PBAED. 

27.  The  Rej/roach  of  Annesley.    By  MAXWELL  GBAY. 

28.  Near  to  Happiness. 

29.  In  the  Wire  Grass.    By  Louis  PENDLETON. 

30.  Lace.    A  Berlin  Romance.    By  PAUL  LINDAU. 
30$.  The  Slack  Poodle.    By  F.  ANSTEY. 

31.  American  Coin.    A  Novel.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

32.  Won  by  Waiting.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

33.  The  Story  of  Helen  Davenant.    By  VIOLET  FANB. 

34.  The  Light  of  Her  Countenance.    By  H.  H.  BOYESEN. 

35.  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope.    My  M.  E.  LE  CLEBC. 
86.  The  Knight-Errant.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

37.  In  the  Golden  Days.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

38.  Giraldi ;  or,  The  Curse  of  Love.    By  Ross  GEOBGE  BERING. 

39.  A  Hardy  Norseman.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

40.  The  Romance  of  Jenny  Harlowe,  and   Sketches  of  Maritime  Life.    By  W. 

CLARK  RUSSELL. 

41.  Passion's  Slave.    By  RICHARD  ASHE-KINO. 

42.  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Femoick.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

43.  Countess  Loreley.    Translated  from  the  German  of  RUDOLF  MENGEB. 

44.  Blind  Love.    By  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

45.  The  Dean's  Daughter.    By  SOPHIE  F.  F.  VEITCH. 

46.  Countess  Irene.    A  Romance  of  Austrian  Life.    By  J.  FOGEBTY. 

47.  Robert  Brownings  Principal  Shorter  Poems. 

48.  Frozen  Hearts.    By  G.  WEBB  APPLETON. 

49.  Djambek  the  Georgian.    By  A.  G.  VON  SUTTNEB. 

50.  The  Crazeof  Christian  Engelhart.    By  HENBY  FAULKNEB DARNELL. 

51.  Lai.    By  WILLIAM  A.  HAMMOND,  M.  D. 

52.  Aline.    A  Novel.    By  HENRY  GREVILLE. 

53.  Joost  Avelingh.    A  Dutch  Story.    By  MAABTEN  MAABTENS. 

54.  Katy  of  Catoctin.    By  GEORGE  ALPRED  TOWNSEND. 

55.  Throckmorton.    A  Novel.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEA  WELL. 

56.  Expatriation.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

57.  Geoffrey  Hampstead.    By  T.  S.  JABVIS. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 

68.  Dmitri.    A  Romance  of  Old  Russia.    By  F.  W.  Bain,  M.  A. 
69   fart  of  the  Property.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

60.  Bismarck  in  Private  Life.    By  a  Fellow-Student. 

61.  In  Low  Relief.    By  MORLEY  ROBERTS. 

62.  The  Canadian*  of  Old.    A  Historical  Romance.    By  PHILIPPE  GASPB. 

63.  A  Squire  of  Low  Degree.    By  LELT  A.  LONG. 

64.  A  Fluttered  Dovecote.    By  GEORGE  MANVILLE  FENN. 

66.   The  A'ugents  of  Carriconna.    An  Irish  Story.    By  TIOHE  HOPKINS. 

66.  A  Sensitive  Plant.    By  E.  and  D.  GERARD. 

67.  Dona  Lvz.    By  JUAN  VALERA.    Translated  by  Mrs.  MART  J.  SERRANO. 

68.  PepUa  Xunenez.   By  JUAN  VALERA.    Translated  by  Mrs.  MARY  J.  SERRANO. 

69.  The  Primes  and  th*ir  Neighbors.    By  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 

70.  The  Iron  Game.    By  HENRY  F.  KEENAN. 

71.  Stories  of  Old  New  Spain.    By  THOMAS  A.  JANVIER. 

72.  The  Maid  of  Honor.    By  Hon.  LEWIS  WINGFIELD. 

78.  In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.    By  MAXWELL  GBAT. 
74  Consequence*.    By  EGERTON  CASTLE. 

75.  The  Three  Miss  Kings.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

76.  A  Matter  of  Skill.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

77.  Maid  Marian,  and  Other  Stories.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL. 
7H.  One  Woman's  Way.    By  EDMUND  PENDLETON. 

79.  A  Merciful  Divorce.    By  F.  W.  MAUDE. 

80.  Stephen  EUicott's  Daughter.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

81.  One  Beaton  Why.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

82.  The  Tragedy  of  Ida  AoW«.    By  W.  CLARK  RUPSELL. 

83.  The  Johnstown  Stage,  and  other  Stories.    By  ROBERT  H.  FLETCHER. 

84.  A  Widower  Indeed.    By  RHODA  BROUOHTON  and  ELIZABETH  BISLAND. 
86.  The  Flight  of  a  Shadow.    By  GEORGE  MA&DONALD. 

86.  Love  or  Money.    By  KATHARINE  LEE. 

87.  Not  All  in  Vain.    By  ADA  CAMBBIDGK. 

88.  It  Happened  Yesterday.    By  FREDERICK  MABSHALL. 

89.  My. Guardian.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

90.  The  Story  of  Philip  JMhuen.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

91.  Amethyst :  The  Story  of  a  Beauty.    By  CHBISTABEL  R.  COLERIDGE. 

92.  Don  Braulio.    By  JUAN  VALERA.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL. 

98.  The  Chronicles  of  Mr.  BUI  Williams.    By  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 

94.  A  Queen  of  Curds  and  Cream.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

95.  "  La  Bella  "  and  Others.    By  EGERTON  CASTLE. 

96.  "  December  Hoses."    By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL- PRAED. 

97.  Jean  de  Kerdren.    By  JEANNE  SCHULTZ. 

88.  Etelka's  Vow.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

89.  Cross  Currents.    By  MARY  A.  DICKENS. 

100.  His  Life's  Magnet.    By  THEODORA  ELMPLTE. 

101.  Passing  the  Lme  of  Women.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NIEDELL. 

102.  In  Old  St.  Stephen's.    By  JEANIE  DBAKE. 

108.  The  Berkeley  s  and  their  Neighbors.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEA  WELL. 

104.  Mona  Maclean,  Medical  Student.    By  GRAHAM  TRAVBBS. 

105.  Mrs.  Bligh.    By  RHODA  BROUGHTON. 

106.  A  Stumble  on  the  Threshold.    By  JAMES  PAYN. 

107.  Hanging  Mots.    By  PAUL  LIWDAU. 

108.  A  Comedy  of  Elopement.    By  CHRISTIAN  REID. 

109.  In  the  Suntlme  of  her  Youth.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

110.  Stories  in  Black  and  White.    By  THOMAS  HARDY  and  Others, 
110J.  An  Englishman  in  Paris.    Notes  and  Recollections. 

111.  Commander  Mendoea.    By  JUAN  VALERA. 

112.  Dr.  PaulTs  Theory.    By  Mrs.  A.  M.  DIEHL. 

113.  Children  of  Destiny.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL. 

114.  A  Little  Minx.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

115.  Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon.    By  HALL  CAINE. 

116.  The  Voice  of  a  Flower.    By  E.  GERARD. 

1 17.  Singularly  Deluded.    By  SARAH  GBAND. 

118.  Suspected.    By  LOUISA  STRATENUS. 

119.  Lucia,  Hugh,  and  Another.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDKLL. 

120.  The  Tutors  Secret.    By  VICTOB  CHERBULIEZ. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 

121.  From  the  Five  Rivers.    By  Mrs.  F.  A.  STEEL. 

123.  An  Innocent  Impostor,  and  Other  Stories.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

123.  Ideala.    By  SARAH  GRAND. 

124.  A  Comedy  ot  Masks.    By  ERNEST  DOWBON  and  ABTHUB  MOOBB. 

125.  Relics.    By  FRANCES  MicNAB. 

126.  Dodo :  A  Detail  of  the  Day.    By  E.  F.  BENSON. 

127.  A  Woman  of  Forty.    By  KSME  STUART. 

128.  Diana  Tempest.    By  MABT  CHOLMONDELEY. 

129.  The  Recipe  for  Diamonds.    By  C.  J.  CUTCLIFFE  HTNB. 

130.  Christina  Chard.    By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PBAED. 

131.  A  Gray  Eye  or  So.    By  FBANK  FBANKFORT  MOOBK. 

132.  Earlscourt.    By  ALEXANDEB  ALLABDYCB. 

133.  A  Marriage  Ceremony.     By  ADA  CAMBBIDOB. 

134.  A  Ward  in  Chancery.    By  Mre.  ALEXANDEB. 

135.  Lot  IS.    By  DOROTHEA  GEBABD. 

136.  Our  Manifold  Nature.    By  SABAH  GRAND. 

137.  A  Costly  Freak.    By  MAXWELL  GBAT. 

138.  A  Beginner.    By  EHODA  BBOUGHTON. 

139.  A  Yellow  Aster.     By  Mrs.  MANNINGTON  CAFFYN  ("  IOTA"). 

140.  The  Rubicon.    By  E.  F.  BENSON. 

141.  The  Trespasser.    By  GILBEBT  PARKER. 

142.  The  Rich  Miss  Riddell.    By  DOROTHEA  GEKARD. 

143.  Mary  Fenwick's  Daughter.    By  LEATBICE  WHITBY. 

144.  Red  Diamonds.    By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY. 

145.  A  Daughter  of  Music.    By  G.  COLMORE. 

146.  Outlaw  and  Lawmaker.    By  Mre.  CAMPBELL-PRAED. 

147.  Dr.  Janet  of  Barley  Street.    By  ARABELLA  KENEALT. 

148.  George  Mandeville's  Husband.    By  C.  E.  RALHOND. 

149.  Vashti  and  Esther. 

150.  Timor's  Two  Worlds.    By  M.  JOKAI. 

151.  A  Victim  of  Good  Luck.    By  W.  E.  NORRIS. 

152.  The  Trail  of  the  Sword.    By  GILBERT  PARKER. 

153.  A  Mild  Barbarian.    By  EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

154.  The  God  in  the  Car.    By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

155.  Children  of  Circumstance.    By  Mre.  M.  CAFFYN. 

156.  At  the  Gate  of  Samaria.    By  WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE. 

157.  The  Justification  of  Andrew  Lebrun.     By  FBANK  BARRETT. 

158.  Dust  and  Laurels.    By  MARY  L.  PENDERED. 

159.  The  Good  Ship  Mohock.    By  W.  CLABK  RUSSELL. 

160.  Noemi.    By  8.  BABING-GOULD. 

161.  The  Honour  of  Savetti.    By  8.  LEVETT  YEATS. 

162.  Kitty's  Engagement.    By  FLORENCE  WABDEN. 

163.  The  Mermaid.    By  L.  DOUGALL. 

164.  An  Arranged  Marriage.    By  DOBOTHEA  GEBABD. 

165.  Eve's  Ransom.    By  GEORGB  GISSINS. 

166.  The  Marriage  of  Esther.    By  GUY  BOOTHBY. 

167.  Fidelis.    By  ADA  CAMBBIDGE. 

168.  Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges.    By  F.  F.  MONTEESOB. 

169.  The  Vengeance  of  James  Vansittart.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

170.  A  Study  in  Prejudices.    By  GEORGE  PASTON. 

171.  The  Mistress  of  Quest.    By  ADELINE  SEBGEANT. 

172.  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee.    By  GEORGE  GISSING. 

173.  In  Old  New  England.  By  HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

174.  Mrs.  Musgrave — and  Her  Husband.    By  R.  MARSH. 

175.  Not  Counting  the  Cost.    By  TASMA. 

176.  Out  of  Due  Season.    By  ADELINE  SERGEANT. 

177.  Scylla  or  Charybdis  ?    By  RHODA  BROUGHTON. 

178.  In  Defiance  of  the  King.    By  C.  C.  HOTCHKISS. 

179.  A  Bid  for  Fortune.    By  GUY  BOOTHBY. 

180.  The  King  of  Andaman.    By  J.  MACLABEN  COBBAN. 

181.  Mrs.  Tregaskiss.    By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PBAED. 

182.  The  Desire  of  the  Moth.    By  CAPEL  VANE. 

183.  A  Self-Denying  Ordinance.    By  M.  HAMILTON. 

184.  Successors  to  the  Title.    By  Mrs.  L.  B.  WALFORD. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. -(Continued.) 

185.  The  Lott  Stradivariiu.    By  T.  MKADE  FALKNEB. 

186.  The  Wrong  Man.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

187.  In  the  Day  oj'  Adversity.    By  J.  BLOUNDELLE-BURTON. 

Each,  12mo,  paper  cover,  50  cents  |  cloth,  $1,00. 


GEORG  EBERS'S  ROMANCES. 

Each,  16  mo,  paper,  4O  cents  per  volume  ;  cloth,  75  crnts. 
Bet3  of  24  volumet,  cloth,  in  box,  flS.OO. 

In  the  Blue  Pike.  A  Romance  of  German  Life  in  the  early  Sixteenth  Century. 
Translated  by  MART  J.  SAFFORD.    1  volume. 

In  the  Fire  of  the  Forgre.    A  Romance  of  Old  Nuremberg.    Translated  by 

MART  J.  S  AFFORD.    2  volumes. 

Cleopatra.    Translated  by  MARY  J.  SAJTORD.    2  volumes. 
A  Thorny  Path.    (PERASPERA.)    Translated  by  CLABA  BELL.    2  volumes. 
An  Egyptian  Princess.    Translated  by  ELEANOR  GROVE.    2  volumes. 
"Uarda.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    2  volumes. 
Homo  Sum.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    1  volume. 
The  Sisters.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    1  volume. 
A  Question.    Translated  by  MART  J.  SATFORD.    1  volume. 
The  Emperor.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    2  volumes. 
The  Burgomaster's  Wife.    Translated  by  MART  J.  SAJTORD.    1  volume. 
A  Word,  only  a  Word.    Translated  by  MART  J.  SAFFORD.    1  volume. 
Serapis.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    1  volume. 
The  Bride  of  the  Nile.    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    2  volumes. 
Margery.    (GBED.)    Translated  by  CLARA  BELL.    2  volumes. 
Joshua.    Translated  by  MART  J.  SATFORD.    1  volume. 

The  Elixir,  and  Other  Tales.     Translated  by  Mrs.  EDWARD  H.  BELL. 
With  Portrait  of  the  Author.    1  volume. 

"  Dr.  Ebere's  romances  founded  on  ancient  history  are  hardly  equaled  by  any 
other  living  author.  ...  He  makes  the  men  arid  women  and  the  scenes  move 
before  the  reader  with  living  reality.  "—Boston  JUome  Journal. 

"  Georg  Ebers  writes  stories  of  ancient  times  with  the  conscientiousness  of  a 
true  investigator.  His  tales  are  so  carefully  told  that  large  portions  of  them 
might  be  clipped  or  quoted  by  editors  of  guide-books  and  authors  of  histories  in- 
tended to  be  popular."— New  York  Herald. 


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RED  BADGE  OF  COURAGE.  An  Epi- 
sode  of 'the  American  Civil  War.  By  STEPHEN  CRANE.  i2mo. 
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"  Mr.  Stephen  Crane  is  a  great  artist,  with  something  new  to  say,  and  conse- 
quently with  a  new  way  of  saying  it.  .  .  .  In  '  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage '  Mr. 
Crane  has  surely  contrived  a  masterpiece.  .  .  .  He  has  painted  a  picture  that  chal- 
lenges comparisons  with  the  most  vivid  scenes  of  Tolstoy's  '  La  Guerre  et  la  Paix'  or 
of  Zola's  '  La  Debacle.'  " — London  New  Review. 

"  In  its  whole  range  of  literature  we  can  call  to  mind  nothing  so  searching  in  its 
analysis,  so  manifestly  impressed  with  the  stamp  of  truth,  as  'The  Red  Badge  of 
Courage."  ...  A  remarkable  study  of  the  average  mind  under  stress  of  battle.  .  .  . 
We  repeat,  a  really  fine  achievement." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"Not  merely  a  remarkable  book  ;  it  is  a  revelation.  .  .  .  One  feels  that,  with  per- 
haps one  or  two  exceptions,  all  previous  descnptions  of  modern  warfare  have  been  the 
merest  abstractions." — St.  James  Gazette. 

"Holds  one  irrevocably.  There  is  no  possibility  of  resistance  when  once  you  are 
in  its  grip,  from  the  first  of  the  march  of  the  troops  to  the  closing  scenes.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Crane,  we  repeat,  has  written  a  remarkable  book.  His  insight  and  his  power  of  realiza- 
tion amount  to  genius." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"There  is  nothing  in  American  fiction  to  compare  with  it  in  the  vivid,  uncom- 
promising, almost  aggressive  vigor  with  which  it  depicts  the  strangely  mingled  condi- 
tions that  go  to  make  up  what  men  call  war.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crane  has  added  to  American 
literature  something  that  has  never  been  done  before,  and  that  is,  in  its  own  peculiar 
way,  inimitable." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  Never  before  have  we  had  the  seamy  side  of  glorious  war  so  well  depicted.  .  .  . 
The  action  of  the  story  throughout  is  splendid,  and  all  aglow  with  color,  movement, 
and  vim.  The  style  is  as  keen  and  bright  as  a  sword  blade,  and  a  Kipling  has  done 
nothing  better  in  this  line." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 


I 


N  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of 
the  American  Re-volution.  By  CHAUNCEY  C.  HOTCHKISS. 
I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  whole  story  is  so  completely  absorbing  that  you  will  sit  far  into  the  night  to 
finish  it.  You  lay  it  aside  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  seen  a  gloriously  true  picture 
of  the  Revolution." — Boston  Herald. 

"  The  story  is  a  strong  one— a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true  American  to  flush 
with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter  until  the  eyes  smart ;  and  it  fairly 
smokes  with  patriotism." — New  York  Mail  and.  Express. 

"  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  part  in  the  scenes.described. 
.  .  .  Altogether  the  book  is  an  addition  to  American  literature."— Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

"One  of  the  most  readable  novels  of  the  year.  ...  As  a  love  romance  it  is  charm- 
ing, while  it  is  filled  with  thrilling  adventure  and  deeds  of  patriotic  daring." — Boston 
Advertiser. 

"  This  romance  seems  to  come  the  nearest  to  a  satisfactory  treatment  in  fiction  of 
the  Revolutionary  period  that  we  have  yet  had." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"  A  clean,  wholesome  story,  full  of  romance  and  interesting  adventure.  .  .  .  Holds 
the  interest  alike  by  the  thread  of  the  story  and  by  the  incidents.  .  .  .  A  remarkably 
well-balanced  and  absorbing  novel." — Mil-waitkee  Journal. 


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HE  ONE  WHO  LOOKED  ON.  By  F.  F.  MON- 
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Cloth,  special  binding,  $1.25. 

"  The  story  runs  on  as  smoothly  as  a  brook  through  lowlands  ;  it  excites  your  in- 
terest at  the  beginning  and  keeps  it  to  the  end." — A'tw  York  Herald. 

"An  exquisite  story.  .  .  .  No  person  sensitive  to  the  influence  of  what  makes  for  the 
true,  the  lovely,  aud  the  strong  in  human  friendship  and  the  real  in  life's  work  can  read 
this  book  without  being  benefited  by  it." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  The  book  has  universal  interest  and  very  unusual  merit  .  .  .  Aside  from  its 
subtle  poetic  charm,  the  book  U  a  noble  example  of  the  power  of  keen  observation." 
—Botto*  Htraid. 

CORRUPTION.     By  PERCY  WHITE,  author  of  "  Mr. 
^      Bailey-Martin,"  etc.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

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the  political  pan  is  perhaps  more  attractive  in  its  sparkle  and  variety  of  incident  than 
the  real  tiling  itself.  — London  Daily  News. 

"  A  drama  of  biting  intensity,  a  tragedy  of  inflexible  purpose  and  relentless  result." 
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A 


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HUNT.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"An  extremely  clever  work.  Miss  Hunt  probably  writes  dialogue  better  than  any 
of  our  young  novelists.  .  .  .  Not  only  are  her  conversations  wonderfully  vivacious  and 
sustained,  but  she  contrives  to  assign  to  each  of  her  characters  a  distinct  mode  of 
speech,  so  that  the  reader  easily  identifies  them,  and  can  follow  the  conversations  without 
the  slightest  difficulty." — London  Athentrum. 

"One  of  the  best  writers  of  dialogue  of  our  immediate  day.  The  conversations  in 
this  book  will  enhance  her  already  secure  reputation."— London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  A  creation  that  does  Miss  Hunt  infinite  credit,  and  places  her  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  vounper  novelists.  .  .  .  Brilliantly  drawn,  quivering  with  life,  adroit,  quiet-witted, 
unfalteringly  insolent,  and  withal  strangely  magnetic." — London  Standard. 

/IN  IMAGINATIVE  MAN.  By  ROBERT  S. 
•**  HICHENS,  author  of  "  The  Green  Carnation."  I2mo.  Clolh, 

$1.25. 

"  One  of  the  brightest  books  of  the  year."—  Boston  Budget. 
"  Altogether  delightful,  fascinating,  unusual." — Cleveland  Amusement  Gazette. 

"  A  study  in  character.  .  .  .  Just  as  entertaining  as  though  it  were  the  conven- 
tional story  of  love  and  marriage.  The  clever  hand  of  the  author  of  '  The  Green 
Carnation  is  easily  detected  in  the  caustic  wit  and  pointed  epigram." — Jeannette  L. 
Gilder,  in  tht  New  York  World. 


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HE  CHRONICLES  OF  COUNT  ANTONIO. 
By  ANTHONY  HOPE,  author  of  "  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda," 
"The  God  in  the  Car,"  etc.  With  a  photogravure  Frontis- 
piece by  S.  W.  Van  SCHAICK.  I2mo.  With  special  binding. 
$1.50. 

"The  Prisoner  of  Zenda"  proved  Mr.  Hope's  power  as  the  author  of  a 
fighting  romance,  and  his  pen  again  becomes  a  sword  in  this  picturesque 
and  thrilling  story  of  a  mediaeval  Italian  paladin,  whose  character  will 
recall  the  Chevalier  Bayard  to  the  reader  who  breathlessly  follows  him 
through  adventures  and  dangers  that  fall  thick  and  fast. 

"Mr.  Anthony  Hope  is  a  striking  exemplification  of  the  fact  that  the 
talent  and  quality  that  are  within  a  man  will  force  themselves  out,  no  mat- 
ter how  circumstances  may  combine  and  conspire  to  keep  them  under. 
This  quiet,  unassuming,  low-voiced  man,  who,  with  a  life  of  almost  mechan- 
ical regularity,  writes  amid  uninspiring  surroundings,  who  has  experienced 
neither  the  stress  nor  the  stir  of  the  world,  but  has  rather  progressed  under 
quelling  influences,  is  Anthony  Hope.  Anthony  Hope,  who  from  his  imagi- 
nation draws  adventure  of  a  keenest  Sturm  und  Drang,  and  reticent  him- 
self, has  put  into  the  mouths  of  a  legion  of  spiritual  children  of  his  own, 
let  loose  over  English-speaking  lands,  the  wit  and  verve  and  brilliance  of 
conversation  which,  in  society,  we  listen  for  in  vain,  and  can  only  hear  in 
faintest  echo  from  the  few  stages  for  which  the  acknowledged  masters 
write — a  sparkling  company  of  talkers,  who  with  their  pleasant  and  inspir- 
ing sayings  have  belied  those  who  have  sung  cynical  requiem  over  the  art 
which  chiefly  charms  this  poor  life  of  ours  and  is  its  greatest  happiness,  the 
art  of  conversation.  And  it  is  from  a  house  at  the  bottom  of  a  gloomy 
London  cul-de-sac,  under  the  gray  mist  of  the  Thames,  and  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  headache  and  ennui,  that  this  sparkle  which  has  overflowed  the 
English-speaking  world  goes  forth." — R.  H.  Sherard,  in  The  Idler. 

"  Mr.  Hope  has  been  rapidly  recognized  by  critics  and  by  the  general 
public  as  the  cleverest  and  most  entertaining  of  our  latest- born  novelists." 
— St.  James's  Gazette. 

"All  his  work  impresses  with  qualities  to  mark  a  rarely  cultivated  mind 
and  art." — Boston  Globe. 

"  Mr.  Hope  is  a  master  at  the  work.  His  construction  is  in  every  way 
admirable.  He  lays  an  excellent  foundation  in  the  choice  of  his  other 
characters,  and  then  he  marshals  his  incidents  with  consummate  art." — 
Milwaukee  Journal. 

"  It  is  a  great  achievement  nowadays  to  be  entertaining,  and  that  Mr. 
Hope  is,  in  his  lively,  fantastic,  dramatic,  impossible  little  stories." — Chicago 
Journal. 

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burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are  fragments  of  the 
author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies  and  the 
life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating  in  expression's  grasp." — Boston 
Courier. 

"Contains  some  of  the  most  dramatic  pieces  Mr.  Crockett  has  yet  written,  and  in 
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reading — all  of  it."— Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  reader  for  its 
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'  The  Lilac  Sunbonnet.'  " — Neva  Haven  Register. 

"'  Bos-Myrtle  and  Peat"  contains  stories  which  could  only  have  been  written  by  a 
man  of  genius." — London  Chronicle. 


T 


HE  LILAC  SUNBONNET.     A  Lave  Story. 


"A  love  story  pure  and  simile,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  wholesome,  sunshiny 
kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who  is  merely  a  good  and 
beautiful  woman ;  and  if  any  other  love  story  half  so  sweet  has  been  written  this  year, 
it  has  escaped  our  notice." — Neva  York  Times. 

"  A  solid  novel  with  an  old-time  flavor,  as  refreshing  when  compared  to  the  average 
modern  story  as  is  a  whiff  of  air  from  the  hills  to  one  just  come  from  a  hothouse." — 
Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth  of  love  be- 
tween the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness  and  a  freshness,  a 
naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  places  'The  Lilac  Sunbonnet'  among  the  best 
stories  of  the  time. " — Neva  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  In  its  own  line  this  little  love  story  can  hardly  be  excelled.  It  is  a  pastoral,  an 
idyl— the  story  of  love  and  courtship  and  marriage  of  a  fine  young  man  and  a  lovely 
girl — no  more.  But  it  is  told  in  so  thoroughly  delightful  a  manner,  with  such  playful 
humor,  such  delicate  fjncy,  such  true  and  sympathetic  feeling,  that  nothing  more 
could  be  desired."— Boston  Traveller. 

"  A  charming  love  story,  redolent  of  the  banks  and  braes  and  lochs  and  pines, 
healthy  to  the  core,  the  love  that  God  made  for  man  and  woman's  first  glimpse  of  para- 
dise, and  a  constant  reminder  of  it." — San  Francisco  Call. 


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BY  A.  CONAN  DOYLE. 

H^HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD. 

-*-       A  Romance  of  the  Life  of  a  Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier.    Illus- 
trated.    I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

There  is  a  flavor  of  Dumas's  Musketeers  in  the  life  of  the  redoubtable  Brigadier 
Gerard,  atypical  Napoleonic  soldier,  more  fortunate  than  many  of  his  compeers  because 
some  of  his  Homeric  exploits  were  accomplished  under  the  personal  observation  of  the 
Emperor.  His  delightfully  romantic  career  included  an  oddly  characteristic  glimpse 
of  England,  and  his  adventures  ranged  from  the  battlefield  to  secret  service.  In  pic- 
turing the  experiences  of  his  fearless,  hard-fighting  and  hard-drinking  hero,  the  author 
of  "The  White  Company"  has  given  us  a  book  which  absorbs  the  interest  and 
quickens  the  pulse  of  every  reader. 


STARK  MUNRO  LETTERS.  Being  a 
Series  of  Twelve  Letters  written  by  STARK  MUNRO,  M.  B., 
to  his  friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during  the  years  1881-1884.  Illus- 
trated. I2mo.  Buckram,  $1.50. 

"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock  Holmes, 
and  1  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him."  —  Richard  le  Gallienne,  in  the  Lon- 
don Star. 

"  Every  one  who  wants  a  hearty  laugh  must  make  acquaintance  with  Dr.  James 
Culiingworth.  "  —  Westminster  Gazette. 

"  Every  one  must  read  ;  for  not  to  know  Cullingworth  should  surely  argue  one's 
self  to  be  unknown."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  One  of  the  freshest  figures  to  be  met  with  in  any  recent  fiction."  —  London  Daily 
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"Positively  magnetic,  and  written  with  that  combined  force  and  grace  for  which  the 
author's  style  is  known."  —  Boston  Budget. 

SEVENTH  EDITION. 

DOUND    THE   RED    LAMP.     Being  Facts  and 
•*  *-    Fancies  of  Medical  Life.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

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ford Times. 

"  If  Mr.  A.  Conan  Doyle  had  not  already  placed  himself  in  the  front  rank  of  living 
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so  by  these  fifteen  short  tales."  —  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  strikingly  realistic  and  decidedly  original  contribution  to  modern  literature."  — 
Boston  Saturday  Evening-  Gazette.  . 

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TONEPASTURES.    By  ELEANOR  STUART.    i6mo. 
Cloth,  75  cents. 


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This  graphic  picture  of  quaint  characters  belongs  to  the  class  of  specialized 
American  fiction  which  has  been  headed  by  the  work  of  Miss  VVilkins,  Mr. 
Cable,  Colonel  Johnston,  Mr.  Garland,  and  others.  The  author  has  studied 
the  peculiar  and  almost  unknown  life  of  the  laborers  in  a  Pennsylvania  min- 
and  manufacturing  town  with  a  keenness  of  observation  and  an  abun- 
t  sense  of  humor  which  will  give  her  book  a  permanent  place  among  the 
genre  studies  of  American  life. 


(COURTSHIP  BY  COMMAND.    By  M.  M.  BLAKE. 
V-x      i6mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

An  interesting  historical  romance  presenting  Napoleon  in  a  new  light. 


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HE  WATTER'S  MOU'.  By  BRAM  STOKER. 
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"Told  with  directness  and  power,  and  is  an  exceptionally  strong  piece  of  work."  — 
Boston  "Journal. 

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Journal. 

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'ASTER  AND  MAN.  By  Count  LEO  TOLSTOY. 
With  an  Introduction  by  W.  D.  HOVVELLS.  i6mo.  Cloth,  75 
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"  Crowded  with  these  characteristic  touches  which  mark  his  literary  work."—  Public 
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"  Reveals  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  the  workings  of  the  human  mind,  and  it  tells  a 
tale  (hat  not  only  stirs  the  emotions,  but  gives  us  a  better  in&ight  into  our  own  hearts." 
—  San  Francisco  A  rgonaut. 


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ZEIT-GEIST.      By  L.  DOUGALL,  author  of 
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"One  of  the  best  of  the  short  stories  of  the  day."  —  Boston  Journal. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  novels  of  the  year."  —  New  York  Commercial 
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